


Beautiful Weeds

by Meadowlark27



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4187796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadowlark27/pseuds/Meadowlark27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss Everdeen has never been baseball's biggest fan. But when her friend, Johanna, drags her to a game one summer, she finds something else about the sport that makes all the difference. Modern-day AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this to FFN a year ago in honor of the CWS, and after getting sucked into this year’s series, I couldn’t help but crank out a second part. This here is the remastered version of the original one-shot (some of the writing left much to be desired, so hopefully this is better). The second part will be up within the next two days.
> 
> Quick note: The version of Part 2 that’ll be posted here will be rated ‘M,’ while the one on FFN will be ‘T.’ If smut’s your cup of tea, then congrats, you’re in the right place.

Katniss doesn’t know what she’s doing here. She doesn’t understand baseball, or even _like_ it, to be perfectly realistic.

But her friend, Johanna Mason, had offered up an extra ticket the night before, and since Katniss had no legitimate excuse to stay pent up in her mother’s house for the entire afternoon, she tentatively accepted.

So now she’s perched in a blue plastic seat, her knees tucked into her chest. Her eyes narrow as they scan the tidal waves of sunburnt, t-shirt-bearing superfans for whatever teams are playing. She yawns. She couldn’t care less.

“Try to tone down the excitement,” Johanna jokes as she leans over across the arm rest.

Katniss doesn’t even bother tilting her head to look at her friend. “I’m here, aren’t I? That’s a miracle of its own.”

“You could at least show some appreciation.” She folds her arms across her chest. “To begin with, these are really nice seats. We’re in the shade, _and_ we’re behind home plate, meaning we get a nice… _view._ Baseball pants do work wonders, don’t they?”

Katniss manages to pipe out a short laugh. “Is that why you’re here? Why you _dragged_ me here? To stare at asses all day?”

“I’m a Vanderbilt fan, what can I say?” She shrugs indifferently, but she pointedly avoids the latter half of the question.

Katniss slumps deeper into her chair, her focus fixed on the next batter who saunters up to the plate. His purple jersey does little to hide the corded muscles of his arms, his skin so sun-kissed that she briefly wonders if he’s actually a bronze figurine.

She isn’t going to waste her breath denying that the baseballer species is just generally attractive. She’s a twenty-year-old single college student, so she’s surely not unfamiliar with the effects of hormones. But for no reason will she ever admit this to Johanna. She prefers avoiding her friend’s harassment at all costs.

Besides, she’s just never been as lust-driven as her colleagues. She doesn’t know if something’s wrong with her, or if it’s simply that she’s never met the person to turn on all of her switches. She doesn’t suppose it matters.

So instead, she searches for something to apply her natural cynicism to, and her eyes flicker up to the massive screen over right field, just as the name _Finnick Odair_ scrolls across the bottom. She crinkles up her nose.

“What kind of name is that?” she sneers, her fingers slipping around the condensation-chilled exterior of her drink.

Johanna laughs. “Dude, there’s a lot of weird names on TCU’s roster. Texas parents should stop trying to be so creative. I saw the names ‘Marvel’ and ‘Blight’ earlier, and then there was one that was a type of bread or something… Pumpernickel, maybe? Poor kid.”

Katniss nearly chokes on her Pepsi. “Oh my _god._ ”

“But, I can’t rag on the parents too much. I swear, every single kid on that team is beautiful. It’s like they’ve popped up straight from a GQ magazine. Or a porno.” A sly smirk crosses her lips. “I’d be okay with the latter of the two.”

Katniss chokes a little but refuses to react otherwise, returning her attention to the bronze god squared at the plate.

She watches him swing and laughs when he misses. Even before she walked into this ballpark, she decided that since she understands next to nothing about this sport, she would reap her entertainment from the players’ mistakes. Her ruthless victimization doesn’t prefer one team over the other; she simply likes watching big-headed athletes make asses of themselves.

Katniss knows she’s bitter. She has no desire to amend that. She was dragged from a perfectly mundane day of isolation to watch a sport she knows nothing about, simply because she lives in the same town as the CWS and her friend had an extra ticket. She promised (rather reluctantly) that she’d come. But she never pledged to enjoy it by _conventional_ means. She’ll do anything to make this afternoon remotely bearable, and if that requires finding joy at the expense of the players’ egos, then so be it.

When the Odair character strikes out, she takes a celebratory sip of her Pepsi before turning to her friend.

“One more down. How many left?”

Johanna laughs. “Jesus, Everdeen. It’s only the second inning.”

“Out of four?” There’s a sport with four subdivisions, right? Hockey, maybe? Tennis?

Johanna looks her over, lips quirked in amusement.

“Nine, Brainless.”

Katniss’s jaw falls open. “And people watch this sport for _fun_?” She angles her shoulders back to face the infield, trying to decide whether she thinks the fans’ endurance is impressive or downright stupid.

Suddenly, Johanna starts giggling.

“Hey, good news—Pumpernickel isn’t actually named Pumpernickel!”

Johanna’s arm is extended, her finger steering Katniss’s focus to the screen. Across the bright pixels, a close-up of the player is displayed, under which threads a boldfaced _Peeta Mellark._ A small squeak bursts in the back of her throat as she finds herself staring at blue, all blue, oceans and rivers and skies, all funneled into the most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen.

And _holy jawline._

Her eyes skim over his stats. She sees numbers like .409 and 72 and 18, but she doesn’t have a clue what these values mean—what the hell is an RBI? Yet she still feels her palms growing clammy, her throat running so dry she can hardly swallow.

She grits her teeth.

“Please trip over the plate,” she says.

And she does. Anything that would wipe that stupid grin off his face. His beautiful, smiling, unfairly symmetrical face. She highly doubts he could be more cocky than the sun-bathed creation batting before him seemed, but there’s just something about him that repulses her.

Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t repulse her at all.

Katniss shifts in her seat. “I hope he falls flat on his face.”

Johanna chuckles. “I hope he falls flat on _my_ —”

“Go to church,” Katniss hisses, smacking her friend’s arm.

 She tries to keep her face low as Not-Pumpernickel shifts at the plate, the bat held over his shoulder in his large, gloved hands. His body is arched, poised for the oncoming pitch, and from underneath the violet helmet, she can see his blonde hair curling out around the rim.

And Johanna was right about baseball pants. They really _do_ do glorious things, although this player looks like he doesn’t need any help.

Katniss glares at the bread-boy as the pitcher first coils, then reels, launching the first pitch through the air. She waits for him to take a clumsy swing, and hopefully face plant. Instead, he only stands still and watches the ball fly by.

The umpire calls a ball, whatever that means, and Katniss huffs.

However, as soon as the next pitch comes slicing toward home plate, the bread-boy swings, and with a melodic crack of metal against leather, the ball is sent up into the blue.

Katniss is mortified when the ball falls short of the wall fencing in center-field, since she’d expected him to send that thing straight over the river to Iowa. But, even though he didn’t get a touchdown/field goal/whatever it is, the outfielder is too late for a catch, and she watches in awe as Not-Pumpernickel rounds first, then second, and slides roughly into third just before the ball reaches the third baseman.

He stands, brushing his gloves over his dirt-drenched pants, and Johanna leans over to whisper something probably crude in her ear, but she’s not listening. She’s calculating, judging—it’s what she does best, as silence is her preferred trade, and she has to fill it with something—and she notices that he’s a little shorter than most of the other players, his shoulders broad and squared as he levels himself on third.

There’s a strange heat pooling in her core as she studies him, visually memorizing his sharp angles and his soft edges, and she squeezes her thighs together to either banish or sate the sensation. She’s not sure which she would prefer.

Damn Johanna for taking her to this stupid game.

* * *

When the ninth inning comes to a close, Katniss is vaguely aware of which team won. The entire game had been filled with her fighting lead-weighted eyelids, her interest only piquing when the blonde-haired TCU player moseyed up to the plate. Although, as it turns out, bread-boy was the _catcher_ , meaning whenever his team wasn’t up to bat, he was still directly in her line of vision anyway. Johanna, naturally, made some vulgar joke about squatting that Katniss emphatically batted away.

By the time the players do their customary beelines across the field to shake hands with the other players, the sun’s beginning to sink behind the ballpark, and Katniss moves to get out of her seat. But Johanna clasps her wrists.

“Patience, young Padawan. We need to stay a bit.”

Katniss groans. “Why on _earth_ would we want to stay in this _goddamn ballpark_ any longer?” She has a delicious cup of ramen noodles and the entire third season of Sherlock left on Netflix, just waiting for her at home.

“I need at least one picture with a player. Unlike you, I was actually rooting for a _team_ … not just for every player to make an ass of himself.”

Katniss counts sheep in her head as they wait, then file up to the main floor to do even _more_ waiting. _One sheep, two sheep, three sheep…_

After what feels like at least 72 hours, and she’s lost track of the thousands of sheep prancing across her head, Katniss spots a few Vanderbilt players posing with some fans. She turns to her side to see Johanna eyeing something in the opposite direction.

“Your boys are over there,” Katniss deadpans, pointing toward the men in black and gold baseball caps.

Without even so much as turning her head to acknowledge the Vanderbilt players, Johanna shoots back, “And _your_ boy is over _there_.” Her index is directed behind Katniss, and after tweaking a brow, she whirls around to see what Johanna is motioning toward.

Her throat runs dry.

Next to the bronze sculpture stands the blonde boy, his curls flipping adorably out from underneath his backward baseball cap. Sandwiched between them is a young girl of about eight, purple facepaint streaked across her face as her parents take a photograph of the trio.

Katniss gulps. “I’ll just wait here while you get your obligatory picture.”

“Nah, I have something more fun in mind.” There’s a conspiratorial twinkle in Johanna’s brown eyes, and bringing the taste of bile up Katniss’s her throat. She doesn’t even have time to usher a frantic _don’t_.

Johanna goes bounding in the opposite direction of the Vanderbilt players.

Katniss is frozen in place, absolutely _mortified_ with her friend, a thousand curse words she didn’t even know she knew bobbling around in her head. Her cheeks are probably three shades darker than a tomato, her eyes wide in horror.

As Johanna speaks, the greek god eyes Johanna’s Vanderbilt getup, but Not-Pumpernickel responds with a nod and a crooked smile. Katniss considers hightailing it straight out of the ballpark, but by the time she’s convinced herself to do it, Johanna and the two TCU players are within spitting distance.

“So Peeta, Finnick, this is my friend, Katniss,” Johanna says, motioning to Katniss, who’s as rigid as a lamp post.

Finnick takes position at her side almost immediately. “What a pleasure to meet you, _Katniss._ Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

She’s not quite sure _what_ face she must’ve made at him, but Peeta steps toward her, his arm extended and his smile apologetic yet still so impossibly warm. It makes her stomach flip. Although she wants it to be, the feeling isn’t necessarily uncomfortable.

“Sorry about Finn,” he says. “He’s a little… _upfront._ ” His hand is still hanging steadily in the air for her to take. Against her better judgment, she does, and the moment their palms align a shock pulses between them. Any possible cocktail of words fizzles in the back of her throat, leaving her jaw slack. Katniss has never been the most articulate of people, but even for her, this is pathetic.

“And _Katniss_ is a little shy,” Johanna chuckles, playfully nudging Peeta as if they’re old friends.

Katniss scoffs. “Hopelessly,” she mutters sarcastically under her breath. She hadn’t intended for anyone to hear it, but Peeta must’ve – he chuckles, the sound sending tingles from her head to her toe. His laugh is beautiful.

“Alright, you three,” Johanna says, prepping her camera as the two players shuffle closer to Katniss. Both boys wind their arms around her, chastely holding her by her waist, but Peeta’s fingers curl around her more securely. His thumb brushes over the fabric of her t-shirt, causing goosebumps to flurry across her back and neck.

She can’t help but wonder if the touch was intentional. She also can’t help but wonder why the hell she doesn’t want give his jaw a vicious uppercut.

 _Dear God, could she actually be attracted to this guy?_ She’d always assumed she just wasn’t wired to have a normal romantic capacity. She was best friends with Gale Hawthorne for ten years and they shared nothing beyond one really awkward, really sloppy kiss that they both immediately regretted. Katniss always thought she was defective or something.

But the symptoms she’s facing now—like the heat in her stomach, the pounding in her chest—suggest otherwise.

All because of the past sixty seconds she’s spent with Not-Pumpernickel over here.

She hates him for this.

Suddenly, both Finnick and Peeta release their grasps on her, Peeta doing so a little more measuredly than his counterpart.

“I’m going to see if someone will take my picture with the Vanderbilt players,” Johanna says, pulling down her camera.

Katniss frowns. “I can take the picture for y—”

“No, you can stay here.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. Before Katniss can whine in protest, she’s bounding past them, leaving her friend stranded.

Although she knows it’d be courteous to at least thank the players, Katniss is frozen in place. She tries to move her jaw, but it feels like it’s been wired shut.

She almost gasps in relief when she hears a musical chuckle at her side.

“You didn’t really want a picture, did you?” Peeta says good-naturedly. He lifts his hand to wipe the beaded sweat from his forehead, and his cheeks are tainted pink (whether from embarrassment or sun exposure, she’s unsure) but his smile is genuine.

She manages to shake her head, angling her shoulders toward Peeta just as a young boy asks Finnick for a picture; he leaves the Peeta alone with Katniss.

She gulps. She doesn’t think she can do this.

“It’s not that,” she says uneasily, lifting a finger to toy with the end of her braid. “I’m just… I don’t know. I’m not the biggest baseball fan.”

“I’ll try not to take it personally,” he jokes, a dimple hollowing into his left cheek. She notices his smile is naturally lopsided, but it’s still… cute. _Really_ cute. And friendly.

“Don’t,” she finds herself saying back, her tone significantly lighter than she’d expected. “It’s not like I have a vendetta against baseball. I’m just really clueless when it comes to sports—well, aside from track. I did that in high school.”

Her cheeks blaze. Since when does she actually _converse_?

But he doesn’t seem to notice her discomfort, his eyes flickering brighter. “Me, too! That, and wrestling. And baseball, of course. Perks of going to a small school, right? You get to do literally anything and everything.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she says, folding her arms. “I had six hundred in my graduating class.”

“Yikes.” He scratches the back of his head. “Where’d you go to high school, then?”

 _He’s just trying to make friendly conversation_ , she tells herself, but it’s still unbelievable. Why is someone like _him_ giving someone like _her_ the time of day? “Here. In Omaha.”

“You go to school here, too?”

“Out in Lincoln, yeah. It’s just an hour away.”

“It must be nice being so close to home,” he says, a nostalgic smile whispering over his lips. “I grew up in Illinois, and I ended up all the way down in Texas for college. It’s been a nice way to get my toes wet, but there are still so many days when…” Something ghosts through his irises, and he immediately rebounds with an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry, I have an awful habit of rambling—you probably don’t want to hear my entire life story.”

She surprises herself by telling him, “I don’t mind.”

He looks at her like she’s a lottery ticket, and somehow, she manages to grin back.

But before he can respond, Finnick’s baritone pierces the air. “Mellark, I need you over here!”

Peeta’s offers him a curt nod before turning back to Katniss. “Well, I guess my life story can wait. It was wonderful meeting you, Katniss.” The way his tongue rolls around her name causes heat to shimmer through her entire body, almost as if she’s been electrified.

“You, too.” She knows she means it.

She’s not quite sure what they’re supposed to do next—shake hands? Hug? Awkwardly walk away and play strangers?—and so she’s thankful when he does all the work, lifting a hand to brush her upper arm. His thumb delicately sweeps over her flesh, and he gifts her with one more of his dimpled, crooked smiles.

The second his hand leaves her arm, she feels cold, even in this ninety-five degree heat.

Just as he’s turning around, Johanna flashes up at his side, her hands finding purchase on his shoulder as she whispers something in his ear. Katniss tenses, both anger and confusion feathering in her nerves. The sentiment only flares brighter when Peeta turns his head to look at Johanna, giving her friend the same smile he’d given her just moments ago. But then he turns to look at her, his blue-eyed gaze arching over her once more, and he offers up half-wave before joining Finnick and a few fans.

“What was that?” Katniss snaps one Johanna meets up with her, anger flashing in her silver glare.

“What was what? Me leaving you with a really attractive baseballer, or me talking to him?”

Now that she mentions it, both.

Katniss is seething, her jaw coiled too tight and her thoughts too tangled to throw together a decent reply. Johanna just giggles. “First of all, you should be thanking me, not grilling me. The boy’s cute, and it looked like you two had a nice, healthy conversation. You don’t have enough of those.”

“It was awkward!” Katniss hisses.

“It was _cute_! He seemed actually impressed with you, from what I saw. Every time I looked over here, the kid couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“He was just being polite.”

Johanna coughs, “Or _interested_ , maybe?”

Now that the high of her interaction with Peeta is wearing off, Katniss is livid. “It doesn’t matter,” she fizzles through gritted teeth. “He lives all the way down in _Texas_ , Jo. I’m literally never going to see him again.”

Something flashes over Johanna’s face, and Katniss scowls. “What?”

But she just shakes her head. “Nothing, nothing. Don’t mind me.”

“Actually, I _do_ mind you. Do you like watching me squirm? Is it some kind of _joke_ to you?”

“Loosen up, Brainless.” She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, I was trying to do you a _favor_. You don’t have enough wholesome interaction as is. Hell, I think the only person you talk to anymore is me, and we all know I’m as far from wholesomeas you can get.”

“That’s for sure,” Katniss growls, even though she knows Johanna’s right. Katniss _doesn’t_ have enough healthy interaction, period.

But what’s so wrong with that? It’s how she likes it. She’s naturally an introvert and would  much rather spend her time in her room or walking along a nature trail or something alone than wasting her afternoon at a ballpark, briefly chatting up a player she’ll never see again. That’s just who she is. She _likes_ lonely. She likes low expectations and calm settings and fresh air and solitude. She always has.

Johanna’s eyes smolder and soften, growing sympathetic as she touches her friend’s arm almost exactly as Peeta had moments before. “Look. I’m sorry if I ruined your already pedestrian day, but I’m just trying to help you.”

Katniss exhales. “I know.”

“And I like pissing you off. It’s more interesting than any damn baseball game could be.” Her thin fingers wrap around her arm. “Come on, pal. Let’s go shake it off at Sae’s.”

Now _this_ is an offer she can’t contest. If Katniss isn’t holed up in her bedroom, or lounging out on some high branch of an oak tree, she’s almost always there.

Grunting in consent, she lets her friend drag her away. Katniss only looks back fleetingly, silver meeting blue in a flash of the crowd, two shy smiles exchanged before she stumbles out of view.

She sighs, mentally damning Johanna yet again or taking her to this stupid game.

* * *

They’ve been at the bar for just under an hour when Katniss nearly goes into cardiac arrest.

Johanna’s finger is swirling absentmindedly around the rim of her cocktail—she’s already twenty-one and can drink legally, while Katniss still has several months to go—when the bell over the front door of the tavern jingles. There’s been a steady flow of bar-goers all night, so Katniss intuitively dismisses the sound as she presses her lips to her water glass.

At least, she doesn’t think twice about it until her friend begins to chuckle.

“Well, would you look at what the cat dragged in.”

Katniss tangles her feet in the wooden legs of her stool, spinning around to follow Johanna’s pointed stare. Just inside the door, a bronze divinity and his friend with sunshine for curls survey the venue.

The choking sound Katniss makes draws their attention to the bar, and almost immediately, the boy with the cosmic irises grins.

_What are they doing here? At her bar?_

The boys are standing in front of her and Johanna before she can even catch her breath. They’ve both showered off since their last encounter, sporting dark-wash jeans and clean shirts; Katniss gulps as she studies Peeta’s physique, his knit grey shirt tight around his biceps, stretching over his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. From where she’s sitting, his curls look so soft, flopping loosely over his ears; his are eyes bright under long lashes, smile as genuine and captivating as ever.

She struggles to suppress a humiliatingly inhuman sound.

“Ladies, it’s wonderful to run in to you again,” Finnick says, resting a hand on the countertop beside Johanna.

As soon as he speaks, every drop of sentimentality vanishes. She glares at him, feeling suddenly territorial over the bar. She feels _invaded_. This is her place, the place that she introduced to Johanna a few years back. It doesn’t belong to wandering outsiders.

But then, her gaze flickers to Peeta, whose eyes are wide in caution. “Mind if we join?” He speaks to both girls, but his gaze doesn’t leave Katniss. Her fingers nervously find her braid.

Well, at least he asked permission.

Katniss is thankful when Johanna pipes up to fill the silence, welcoming the men. Finnick takes the stool on the other side of Johanna, and Katniss is momentarily relieved with his distance, but suddenly, Peeta slips into the seat beside _her_ , and she feels her throat rapidly constricting.

Oh, god. She wonders if she’s about to have an asthma attack. She doesn’t have asthma, but she’s already beginning to show symptoms, so she’s on the verge of self-diagnosis when—

“Are you okay?”

Peeta’s expression is knit with concern, his body angled slightly toward her as he frowns.

It takes her a few seconds to remember how to breathe, but once she finally does, the rush of cool air down her windpipe alleviates some of the heat in her cheeks and forehead; she manages a nod.

“Yeah. Just a little, uh… _surprised,_ I guess.”

His frown deepens. “Finn and I can leave if you’re uncomfortable, Katniss.”

She shakes her head ferociously. “No, it’s—it’s fine.” She looks over her shoulder to see Johanna laughing while Finnick cards through his hair. “I don’t want to interrupt the lovebirds over there.”

“I don’t think they’re quite lovebirds,” he chuckles. “Believe it or not, Finnick actually has a girlfriend back home. She’s got him wound so tightly around her finger I’m surprised he hasn’t suffocated himself yet. She’s such a sweetheart, and he’s head over heels for that girl… wouldn’t trade her for anything in the entire world. But he’s just a natural flirt, you know? Doesn’t mean anything by it—it’s mostly harmless. Well, as long as your friend over there can handle his intensity…. sometimes he takes it a bit too far, but he never does so intentionally, I swear. He’s a good guy.”

Grooving her elbow against the countertop, she rests her cheek on her hand. Although he’s a hopeless rambler, and she hates to admit this… the way he speaks is modestly charming.

“If anyone can handle him, it’s Johanna. The girl’s crafty – I’ll give her that.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Johanna in the five minutes I’ve ever spent around her, it’s that she’s pretty damn devious.”

Katniss tweaks a brow, parting her lips to ask exactly what he means by that, but they’re interrupted by a voice on the opposite side of the bar.

“Well, Miss Everdeen, you’ve got yourself quite a handsome date,” Sae laughs, wrinkles webbing from the corners of her eyes as she leans over the counter.

Katniss is sure she’s beet red from head to toe. “He’s not my d—”

“Hush, girl. Just pretend for me.” She looks briefly to Peeta, who has a blush of his own curling below his cheekbones, before her stare returns to Katniss. “Now, introduce me to your _date_ , dear.”

Katniss adores the woman too much to ignore her. “This is Peeta. He, uh… he’s in town for the CWS. He plays for TCU.”

Sae blinks a few times, her leathery lips falling open. “What a catch, girl!”

Katniss’s ears burn. “Peeta, this is Sae. She’s been my neighbor my whole life, and she owns the bar. Please don’t listen to a word she says—she’s like my grandmother. She personally holds herself accountable for humiliating me.”

Peeta releases one of his musical chuckles, stretching his hand over the bar. “It’s nice to meet you, Sae. I would tell you Katniss has told me all about you, but I literally met her an hour and a half ago.”

Sae takes his peace offering, shaking his hand firmly. “She doesn’t talk much, anyway. But don’t be fooled by her hard shell; deep down, she’s got a really kind heart.”

“I’m right here, Sae,” Katniss growls, hopefully fierce enough balance out the red in her cheeks.

“Like I said, _deep down._ ” Sae laughs warmly. “Anyway, what can I get for you, young man?”

Peeta looks hopelessly at the unopened menu between his arms, his gaze shooting frantically to Katniss. “Any recommendations?”

“You have to try the macaroni and cheese. It’s legendary.”

He claps his hands together. “Well, the mac n’ cheese sounds lovely.”

“And to drink?”

“Just a water would be good.” He hands her the menu, and turns back to Katniss. “I’m banking on your recommendation, Miss Everdeen. I’m absolutely starving.”

“It won’t let you down.”

“No,” he says, his tone huskier than before as he looks her over. “I don’t suppose it will.”

Something in his gaze makes her body feel like a sack of feathers. Her face is hot, tingly, and she looks to her knees, her fingers toying with the end of her braid.

She almost topples off the stool when Peeta’s hand suddenly grazes hers, gently drawing it from her hair. “You do that a lot,” he murmurs. “Play with your braid, I mean.”

She feels herself bristle at his comment, chest tightening. “So what?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” he says, his voice warm and placating. “It’s just a nervous tick, isn’t it?”

She nods.

“Hey, it’s fine. I have them, too. I chew on the inside of my cheek or my lip. If it makes you feel better, then so be it, I just… I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

There it is, that word again. _Uncomfortable._ She can’t help but wonder… is she uncomfortable? She knows she’s anxious, surely, but that’s simply because he’s a boy, a _cute_ boy, a _really, really, really cute_ boy, and he’s giving her the time of day in a way hardly anyone has before. Certainly not someone with a status as gold-leaf as his. And it doesn’t help that she’s never been good with flirting or communicating or even _trusting_ before – she never lets her walls down, too afraid that she’ll get hurt.

But maybe, just maybe, she could allow her guard down just this one time, because _Peeta is good_. He must be. He’s good, and he’s kind, and he makes her smile which is a triumph of its own. She’s twenty years old; it’s about time she just enjoyed herself. Just this once.

It doesn’t seem like that’d be too difficult with Peeta, anyway.

She pulls extricates herself from her thoughts, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t—I’m not uncomfortable,” she manages quietly. “I’m just… not good at this.”

“Not good at what?”

“Informality, I guess.” She shrugs. “And all that jazz.”

He doesn’t seem to be deterred by her, which is a first; he only leans in closer, the fingers that had been grazing her palm furrowing deeper, taking her hand in his. She’s startled when she doesn’t even attempt to retract from his grasp.

“We don’t have to do ‘all that jazz,’ not if you don’t want to. I just—forgive me for being blunt, Katniss, but I like you. I want to talk to you. To get to know you a little.” Then the corners of his mouth twist up. “And, of course, I have to tell you my life story, since I was going to do that earlier before I was interrupted.”

She sighs. It seems easy enough. _Safe_ enough.

“Okay,” she concedes.

And so they do what he wanted, what _she_ wanted—they talk. It’s oddly simple with Peeta, as if the boy was put on this earth just to make conversation. For the most part, he supplies the dialogue, and she supplies her attentive ears, but he does stir her with questions, which she answers willingly. She tells him she’s a Biology major, her favorite color is green, she’s lived in this town her whole life, she hates having her hair down. In turn, he swamps her with his own stories. He tells her that he’s played baseball since he was five, his parents own a bakery, his favorite color is orange (but not construction-cone or Texas Longhorn orange – more like a hue you’d see during a sunset), he’s an ace cake decorator, he loves to paint, he’s an Art major (although his mother refuses to accept that, claiming it’s not a real degree), and he has two brothers.

In many ways, he’s her flagrant opposite, but she doesn’t mind. He’s the voice to her silence, the imagination to her rationality, the smile to her poker-face, the John Watson to her Sherlock, the Apollo to her Artemis. He’s her counterpart. He’s her compliment.

And he’s as brilliant, as blindingly radiant as the sun.

They hardly pay any mind to Johanna and Finnick, who are in their own little drunken, giggling realm. Peeta and Katniss have been chatting for nearly an hour, and her reservations are nearly as expended as his macaroni – they’re both well-fed in every sense. For the first time in ages, she feels nourished, nurtured by this healthy contact.

She can’t help but wonder why she’d wanted to push him away in the first place.

But once he says what they’ve both been dreading, she suddenly remembers _exactly_ why.

“I should probably get Finnick back to the hotel,” he murmurs. “You know, before he either passes out or takes to projectile vomiting.”

Something in her chest plummets. She forces herself to nod. “Same for Jo.”

“I’ll walk you two to your car, alright?” he says with a sad smile.

“I’d like that.”

After paying Sae, she slings her arm around Johanna’s waist, managing to steer her staggering friend out to the parking lot with Peeta and Finnick close behind.

Darkness sheathes them as head into the night, the muted sounds of faint traffic and cricket chirps echoing off the pavement. She feels something in her chest burning. The world around her is just as it’s always been, the sky the same one she sees from her window every night. This city is hers. This air is hers. This _night_ is hers.

But the golden-haired boy standing with his friend just feet from Johanna’s sedan is _not_ hers, and he doesn’t belong here. This isn’t _his_ world.

She’d give anything for it to be. She’d play Ariel, sacrificing the singing voice Peeta will never hear so that he doesn’t have to leave her. It doesn’t matter that they’ve only known each other a few hours; there are still so many secretes she’s never wanted to tell anyone, yet wants to tell _him_ , because she’s never felt like this. She’s never felt this bourgeoning hope, blooming inside her heart like a dandelion. A beautiful weed.

 Peeta’s different. Different than anything. Different from her in every way, which is what makes it right.

Once Johanna’s slumped safely in the passenger’s seat, she slams the door, leaning against the car as she rubs her temples. What is wrong with her? She’s _never_ been like this before. Never been so… so weak. So _needy_.

She hates herself for it, but she finds she can’t hate _him,_ because nothing on this earth could make her hate the boy that caused her to blossom.

After Finnick’s been propped against the light pole, Peeta meets Katniss by the car door.

“Katniss, I—” He smiles at her, the wistfulness hazing his blue eyes into dark seas. She feels it, too. “I had an incredible time tonight.”

“So did I.”

He shuffles on his feet, frowning as his eyes fall to the concrete, and he gulps, obviously fighting for the right words. For the first time tonight, the boy’s silver tongue falters.

And then he chuckles. “You’ll have to thank Johanna for me.”

Katniss frowns. “What?”

“She’s the reason I got to see you again.”

She stares at him blankly; he smiles at her, touching her braid.

“After I said goodbye to you at the ballpark, she came up to me and told me that you two would be here, at Sae’s, if I wanted to come see you again. It was crazy, and I had no idea how she knew, but… I’m glad she did that. I’m glad I got to know you.”

 _So that’s what Johanna had whispered in Peeta’s ear_. But her frown doesn’t ebb, a few of his words clinging to the front of her mind. “You had no idea how she knew what?”

He smiles guiltily at her.

“She knew I was attracted to you. That I wanted to see you, even if it would end like this.”

Well, at least the boy’s blunt.

Unsure of what to say, she lets her gaze fall, her fingers lifting to fiddle with her braid. Suddenly, Peeta’s hand is on hers again to tow it away, but instead of bringing it to her side like expected, his fingers leave hers so that he can cup his palm around her jaw, his calloused palms like satin on her skin, and she leans into his touch.

“Why do I make you so nervous?” he breathes.

He doesn’t get it, does he?

There are a million things Katniss could say. _Because you’re kind. Because you’re handsome. Because you had twenty-thousand people watching you play ball earlier today. Because no one is like you. Because you make me feel special. Because you make me feel wanted. Because I had a wonderful time tonight. Because it doesn’t matter. Because I won’t see you after this week. Because I won’t see you after tonight. Because you’re on a track to greatness. Because I’m nothing._

But Katniss has never been good with words, and this moment surely won’t prove to be an anomaly. Even so, she manages to synthesize all her fears, all her worries into one simple phrase, a string of four words that sums up everything and nothing all the same.

“Because I want you,” she whispers.

Her eyes catch his, silver melting into blue, blue melting into silver.

But it’s not enough. It can’t be enough, it won’t _ever_ be enough, and she knows that.

He knows it, too. And, as always, Peeta’s the daring one, testing the waters and dragging her in with him. His other hand splits the dark to meet her cheek, both palms bracketing her face, and in one swift movement his lips are on hers. His purpose is clear, but the kiss is so impossibly gentle that she feels herself quiver, reduced to boneless mess, so she frantically clutches the fabric of his shirt to anchor herself to him.

The voice in her head sputters, cutting through the labyrinth of her mind that seems to be made of nothing but dead-ends, and she feels hopelessly lost, and hopelessly _confused_ , but when she feels his lips part slightly, his breath filling her lungs, her mind suddenly calms.

One of his hands slides from her cheek to her waist to hold her in place, cradling her against him, and suddenly, something inside her clicks. She presses her mouth more deliberately against his, her clutch tightening on his shirt, and she hears a soft moan in the back of his throat. It only emboldens her. At once, she is not the shy girl playing fretfully with her braid. She is not the girl avoiding Peeta’s gaze. She is not the girl hiding from him, from everyone, from herself.

She is the girl on fire.

Kissing Peeta fans her embers, her flame burning brighter and higher, and she lifts her fingers to tangle them in Peeta’s curls. He responds ardently, his mouth still gentle on hers but less cautious, and somewhere in the midst of their desperate sighs and tightening grips, he tells her, “I want you, too. So much.”

She has never felt so alive.

But all too soon, Peeta draws back, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone as he smiles down at her. “You’re beautiful, Katniss Everdeen. You know that?”

Her stomach vaults in triumphant cartwheels.

She smiles.

Instead of bringing his lips back to hers like she wants, he softly presses them to her forehead, then her cheek, then the tip of her nose.

She smolders.

“I should get going.”

She shatters.

All she can do is nod, swallowing the ache in her chest—after all, she is an expert at steeling herself. “Me, too. Before Johanna barfs all over the upholstery.”

Peeta laughs, but it’s hardly as musical as before, and she can see his own distress behind his smile. She wants to be angry, or irritated, or anything else she’s well-equipped with handle, but she simply can’t do it. She can’t be angry with Peeta. And somehow, she can’t be angry with herself, because she wouldn’t take this back.

It’s an odd feeling for her. Feeling hurt with nothing to regret, nothing to blame.

She likes Peeta. She can’t regret him.

“We can see each other again, while I’m still in town,” he tells her quietly, his fingers skimming over the ridges of her braid. “Tomorrow night. The night after that. If we keep winning… I could be here over the weekend, Katniss. We can see each other then. I don’t want…”

He doesn’t have to finish.

She braids her fingers in the soft down at the nape of his neck, and his jaw hardens as he gazes down at her, his smile twisted with ache.

“I’ll see you again, Katniss.” It sounds too much like a question.

She’s never been good at praying, but in this moment, she prays he’s right.

They exchange phone numbers, followed by a quick kiss, and then one more, and then two, before he opens the car door for her to slide in. She rolls down the window, and he bows over for a moment, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

When he leans in to press his lips to hers one more time, she murmurs into his mouth, “Stay with me.”

When he pulls back, he offers her a sad smile, and unlike nearly every other moment they’ve spent together, he takes to silence.

Her eyes are stinging, her throat thick and throbbing as she revs the engine and pulls out. Although she can see him watching her through her peripheries, she refuses to look at him, her entire resolve turning to stone. If she catches those eyes one more time, she’ll shatter all over again, and Katniss will do anything to avoid such a fate.

However, as she’s exiting the parking lot, she does spare him one glance through the review mirror, and although he’s since helped Finnick off the pavement, his body is still angled toward the sedan.

He gives her a half-wave, much like the one he’d gifted her with at the ballpark, and she can’t help but feel an inkling of hope that he’ll surprise her again, like he had tonight. That he’ll keep surprising her. That he’ll keep coming back.

She’s not accustomed to operating under hope, but for Peeta, she figures it’s worth a shot.

As they drive down the darkened street, Johanna stirs at her side.

“I may be drunk, but I’m not deaf.”

“Go to sleep, Jo.”

Deliberately defying Katniss’s directive, Johanna shifts in her seat, straightening up a little. “I heard everything back there. You’re not a quiet kisser, you know.”

“Shut up.”

Through the corner of her eyes, Katniss can see Johanna smiling. “The boy likes you,” she sighs.

Her heart aches and leaps simultaneously. How is that possible?

She doesn’t say anything, but oddly, her silence seems so inappropriate now.

A thick quiet fills the car, but eventually, Johanna punctures it with a low chuckle. “You can thank me now, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“For setting this whole shebang up,” she laughs, following up with a hiccup. “I told Peeta where I’d be taking you, and that’s why he was there. Because of me, Kat. Call me Cupid.”

Katniss squares her jaw. “There are a lot of other names I could call you, too, you know, and none of them are so kind.”

“Stop acting like you have a stick up your butt, Katniss,” she slurs, her words slightly dragged together. “You had a good time tonight. I know you did. You kept laughing with Peeta and you _never_ laugh, Katniss. Never.”

A ghost of a smile traces over her lips, but she says nothing.

“I know it’s a little sad that you’ll never see him again after next week—” Katniss winces—“but it’s okay. You had a good time tonight, Katniss. You let your hair down—well, figuratively. I think your hair is permanently yanked up in that tight little braid of yours, but… you know…” She frowns. “What was I saying?”

Katniss lets out a humorless chuckle. “It doesn’t matter.”

Johanna, suddenly confused, slumps back in her seat.

After a few moments, she belches loudly, finally continuing on her previous train of thought. “All I’m saying, Brainless, is that it’s going to be alright. You were brave and you opened up to someone you would normally shove right into a pile of mud and I think that’s a pretty damn big step in the right direction, don’t you? You’re growing, Kitty-Kat.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then smile, Katniss. You met a pretty stellar dude tonight who thinks you’re just the bees knees. There’s hope for you.”

Katniss turns her head briefly to give her a grotesquely fake smile, and Johanna just laughs, sagging even further. Within a minute, she’s snoring.

Even though Johanna is an annoying drunk, she’s never been short of insight, and despite her desire to toss everything her friend had said aside, she can’t.

Johanna was right. Even though Katniss will walk away from this night alone, with nothing but a phone number tethering her to Peeta Mellark, she can’t regret a single second of it. Not when she met someone who made her smile, helped her break her shell, and taught her how to hope.

As the stars sweep over the roof of her car, and her friend stirs quietly in the passenger’s seat, Katniss feels her shoulders relax.

She touches her lips and finds a smile there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a bit long, so I decided to break it up into two parts. It seemed a little OOC for Katniss to want to bang Peeta right off the bat (wow baseball puns so funny) so I decided to reserve that for the next part. Which is already halfway written, so as soon as I finish my summer coursework for the week, I'll get around to putting the finishing touches on that.

“So, Brainless. What do you say?”

On her doorstep stands Johanna Mason, two blue-and-silver tickets fanned between her fingers. Katniss twists her neck, looking over her shoulder into her mother’s darkened apartment. Her laptop is wedged in the cushions of her sofa, the screen paused on an episode of _The 100._

_Here we go again._

She grips the doorframe. “What makes you think you can manipulate me into this again?”

“Butts.” She pinches the tickets. “ _So_ many cute butts.” When Katniss scowls, Johanna cracks a smile. “C’mon, I’m only back in town for two more days. If you don’t let me drag you to this game, you’ll probably never see my beautiful face again.”

“Pity,” Katniss says, her tongue rolling in her mouth. But, sarcasm aside, she does know Johanna has a point. Because her friend managed to snag an internship out in Portland for the summer, Katniss hasn’t been able to see her since May, and probably won’t be able to see her again until fall break, maybe even Christmas. Johanna’s back in Omaha this weekend in early July for her cousin’s wedding, but as soon as Monday rolls around, she’ll be on a plane back to the coast.

“Look, I know it’s no CWS game. But it’s still your last chance to spend some quality time with me. I’ll even buy you ice cream.”

“Well, if there’s _ice cream_ involved…”

Johanna playfully socks Katniss in the arm, and Katniss laughs, ducking back into the apartment to find her shoes.

* * *

The environment at Werner Park is entirely different from her memory of the previous year’s TCU-Vanderbilt game, mostly because the crowd is one-tenth the size. On the way to the ballpark, Johanna explained to Katniss that they were going to watch a minor league game, meaning the intensity would be halved but the number of children would skyrocket.

Once they arrive, Katniss understands what her friend meant. Behind the seats off third base rests a carousel and small playground, crawling with tiny, screaming toddlers. Even though the game’s about to start, half the seats are empty.

She doesn’t know how to feel about this. Not that it matters. Baseball as an entity is her sworn enemy, anyway.

“Jo, do you even like this team?” she asks once her friend, as promised, buys her ice cream from the concession stand.

Johanna shrugs, passing her the cone. “There’s a few players I wanted to see, but I’m not too invested, to be honest.”

“Then why are we here?”

Johanna tilts down her sunglasses, arching her brows.

“Quality girl time. Now shut up and eat your ice cream.”

They find their seats – first row, just off first base. As Katniss laves her tongue along the column of chocolate ice cream, she eyes the players warming up in the outfield.

“So, what’s the deal with these guys? Are they just not that good?”

“Nah, they’re alright. A few are coming off injuries, and some others are right out of college. All of them will be better than the guys we saw last year, though.”

With the mention of _last year,_ Katniss busies her mouth by nibbling on the cone’s rim so that Johanna can’t see her grimace. Although it wasn’t easy at first, both of them have become quite adept to artfully ignoring any topics pertaining to _last year_. Or, more explicitly, Peeta Mellark. Not because she has beef with the guy, but because thinking about him always makes her lungs do funky things, like tighten or stop working altogether.

His team didn’t make it very far beyond their game with Vanderbilt, so before he and Katniss could meet again, he was gone. While they both had noble intentions with frequent texting and the occasional phone call, it wasn’t enough to sustain their connection.

Which was alright. Not because she wanted it to be alright, but because it _had_ to be – did she have a choice? An hour of conversation and swapped phone numbers was a pretty feeble foundation for any sort of bond to begin with, even though things with them had felt… different. Special. But the impossibility of it all was something they came to terms with together, on an afternoon in September, when he called her because they hadn’t spoken in weeks.

His voice sounded like crumpled crepe paper.

_“What do we do?”_

This was after he told her he’d be graduating at semester – he’d managed to score a contract with a professional franchise, meaning he’d start training with some double-A team that winter. That was when they both realized it couldn’t work between them, if there was even _something_ to work out in the first place.

She remembered how her fingers started plucking at the end of her braid, knuckles twitching, throat splitting down the sides. Everything hurt. At that point, she’d known for quite some time that they were failing, but it was his broken _What do we do?_ that sent her into helpless surrender.

_“I guess…”_ Her own words were stiff. _“We try and forget.”_

Over the line’s static, she could hear his breath wavering, shaky and heavy, as if his composure was slowly evaporating.

He said, _“I don’t want to forget_.”

But they didn’t have a choice. Respecting her wishes, he never called her again after that.

She usually copes well with the dissolution of their friendship – at this point, he only flits through her mind on rare occasions, such as when she sees a TCU ball cap, or eats Sae’s macaroni and cheese. Even then, the nostalgia is manageable.

But today, curled up in the green plastic chair beside Johanna, the throbbing under her ribs becomes more persistent than it’s been in months.

She wants to ask Johanna if she’s heard anything about Peeta – for mental health purposes, Katniss stopped keeping tabs on him the same time they stopped speaking – and she feels the question wadding in her throat, but she can’t bring her tongue to form his name. It’s been so long since she allowed herself to speak it, anyway.

Just before they start introducing the lineup, Katniss sneaks off to the bathroom after passing Johanna her cone, catching her breath. When she composes herself, she returns to find that the first batter for the other team is already up, and Johanna’s hand is streaked with melted chocolate.

“It’s ninety degrees out, Brainless. Do you know what happens to frozen things when it’s ninety degrees out?”

Katniss apologizes, taking the cone from her hand.

“And, _and_ —” Johanna’s shaking her brown-glossed hand now—“You _missed_ the _lineup_.”

“I think I’ll live,” she grumbles before dipping her tongue around the cone for damage control.

She quickly discovers that minor league baseball isn’t much different from college; the pitchers are a little better, she supposes, and most of these players have their socks pulled up to just below their knees. And, as made clear by Johanna— _professional baseballers’ asses are SO much better than those reedy little twerps in the CWS._

Otherwise, however, she sees no difference. Both levels are set at a brutally, painfully sluggish pace.

The top of the first inning passes by scoreless, and as the home team takes the outfield, Johanna turns to Katniss.

“So, how’ve you been lately?”

There’s a sparkle in her wide-set eyes that makes Katniss’s stomach flop. She knows that look too well, and she deadpans.

“Good?” she answers, drawing out the vowel.

With a devious smile, Johanna leans closer. “Any notable changes in your love life?”

_She knew it, she knew it, she knew it._ Katniss slouches in her seat.

“What do you think, Jo?” she grumbles. Her mood was already pretty low just from the scent of funnel cakes, but now that Johanna’s brought up the most unfruitful aspect of her existence, she plummets into full-on Squidward mode.

“I mean—nothing’s changed?” Johanna asks.

Katniss’s gaze drills into the batter, who swings at a mediocre pitch and sends the ball whizzing straight up in the air. It comes down fast, straight into the second baseman’s glove.

“Nothing’s changed,” she confirms as the batter takes his walk of shame to the dugout. “I went on one date, just to see how it felt, and I wanted to slug the guy the entire night. Wouldn’t shut up about his damn dirt bike.”

“Maybe you need to find a guy who’s not into dirt bikes.”

“Or maybe I can just accept the fact that I’ve got the libido of a rock.”

Johanna chuckles and bumps Katniss’s knee with her own. “You felt something with… with _him_ , though.”

Katniss feels her skin prickle, like someone’s rolled her in a vat of sea nettles. But she doesn’t want Johanna to know what she’s feeling, so she forces out a tight smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Katniss shrugs.

“Girl, every time you got a text from him, you’d get this stupid grin on your face. I couldn’t decide if it was more adorable or pitiful.”

“Thanks,” Katniss says dryly.

“Anyhow, I’m sure you’ll feel that again.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Her voice is laced with sarcasm as she chomps into the wafer cone. “Sure.”

“Sooner rather than later,” Johanna says.

But Katniss’s eyes are pinned on what little is left of her ice cream. “Mmhmm.”

“Like maybe now.” There’s a smile in Johanna’s voice, one that makes ice feather up Katniss’s spine. “If you look up.”

_What?_

Katniss’s chin snaps up to her friend, who nods her head toward the outfield. Thoroughly confused, she follows her gaze, first to the players, then to the screen, then to the blue, blue, blue.

She feels all her blood shoot to her heart, bundling into one massive wad of electricity, and then it drains, drains, drains into nothing.

She drops her cone.

He looks the same, crooked smile brilliant and white as it spans the screen. His hair’s a little shorter now, but the blonde curls still peek out around the rim of his Storm Chaser’s hat. His shoulders are broad, his jaw sharp and clean-shaven.

In the picture, he looks happy.

She’s vaguely aware that her fingers have the ends of her arm rests in a death-grip, but she can’t bring herself to let go, afraid she’ll topple over if she’s not holding on to anything. Her eyes flicker from the screen to home plate where he’s standing, prepped for the first pitch, wooden bat poised over his shoulder.

It’s him. Just a hundred feet away.

The pitcher launches a ball his way, at which he swings, completely missing. That’s all it takes for the stiffness to snap from her shoulders, and she whips around to look at Johanna, whose expression is entirely absorbed by her devilish grin.

“Feeling it now?”

Katniss’s lungs pulse as she tries to find her voice. When she finally does, however, it comes out sounding more like a wheeze than a threat.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Johanna just waves her hand dismissively. “A simple ‘thank-you’ will suffice just fine.”

But Katniss’s face feels like fire. “How _dare_ you?” she hisses, her nails digging into the plastic armrest.

“Look, I heard he negotiated his contract at the end of last month. His team didn’t need an extra catcher, so now he’s here in Omaha.”

So Johanna _was_ keeping tabs on him. She’s not sure whether she should be enraged or grateful.

Enraged, she decides. She’s much more adept to handle anger than gratitude.

“I can’t believe you did this,” she grits. Although, it shouldn’t surprise her. This is the same Johanna who reeled in Peeta and Finnick after that first game, sandwiching Katniss between them for a photo; the same Johanna who left her alone with Peeta, hoping they’d hit it off; the same Johanna who suggested in secret that Peeta join them at Sae’s.

The same Johanna who has been enabling this all along.

Her anger falters just as Johanna points out, “I can’t believe you’re upset with me. You should be celebrating, Kat! The kid’s magically in the same town as you. You can see him again.”

She can feel her face drain of color.

“Oh god. He didn’t do this for me, right?”

“What, negotiate his contract for you? For a girl he literally met _once_?” A goat-like laugh bursts from Johanna’s lips. “You’ve never been vain, so don’t start now. I doubt he had much of a choice where he was sent to. Pure luck of the draw.”

Well, if luck feels like a sack of rocks walloping against her stomach, than that’s exactly what this must be.

Katniss’s attention returns to him poised at the plate, just in time to watch a pitch sail straight into the strike zone. With a wicked _crack_ of his bat, the ball splits up the center of the field, dodging the shortstop who dives a second too late.

She watches as he runs – even faster now than she remembers him running a year ago – and rounds first base, heading toward second, but as the center fielder scoops up the ball, he shuffles safely back to first.

And there he is. Less than twenty feet from them, and entirely oblivious.

Katniss feels like someone just shoved a cheese grater down her throat.

“I—I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Katniss, you were _just there_ —”

But Johanna’s appeal falls on deaf ears as Katniss pogo-sticks up into the air, shifting past Johanna’s knees. Once she reaches the aisle, she grabs the center railing for support, her head swimming with fog.

She doesn’t know why she does it; she should know better than to turn around and look at the source of her panic attack, but something begs her to pivot, and she looks over her shoulder just in time to see Peeta Mellark tossing his batting gloves onto the grass. He’s about to turn back to the plate when his eyes flicker up to the stands, locking with hers as if their gazes were magnets giving into their pull.

Blue, all blue, nothing but blue.

He looks like someone’s just smacked his stomach with a sack of rocks, too.

And then she’s squeezing the railing, spinning herself around and sprinting up the stairs so that she doesn’t have to see his lips forming her name.

* * *

She’s been gripping the sink and staring into the mirror for a solid five minutes when Johanna comes to find her.

“Jesus, Everdeen. Pull yourself together.”

Her knuckles are white against the basin’s rim, but her reflection’s cheeks are even paler, tinged slightly green. The sloshing nausea subsided a few minutes ago, but her brain is still running dizzying laps inside her skull.

“I can’t go back out there,” she murmurs.

But Johanna, always audacious and never relenting, grabs Katniss by the elbow and yanks her toward the door.

“He’s just a boy, Katniss.”

“A boy that I really, _really_ liked.”

Her tone must be desperate enough, because Johanna stills, turning back toward her. Her eyes are softer, darker; she squeezes her friend’s arm, sighing.

“I know that letting people in is scary for you, and that you’re not used to having _feelings_ and all, but… this is _good_ , Katniss. That kid opened you up, and even though it’s been a year, I bet you that he hasn’t forgotten. You’re not easy to forget, you know.”

Katniss tries to smile, but her cheeks feel like iron.

“Hey, hey.” Johanna’s thumb brushes over her elbow. “If you really think being in the same ballpark as Peeta Mellark will bring on the apocalypse, then fine. Let’s get out of here and go catch a movie or something. But… I think it’d be good for you to wait it out. And maybe even try to talk to him after. If he wants to talk, of course. Which he probably does, by the way he was gawking after you when you ran up those stairs—”

“ _Johanna_ —”

“—Just give it a shot, please?”

Ignoring the way her stomach swills under her ribs, and her lungs crimp together, and her head screams _no_ , she swallows and nods, letting her friend lead her out of the bathroom.

* * *

It’s the top of the second inning when they return, and now that she knows who the catcher is, her focus can’t find a home anywhere else. She wonders if he’s looking back at her, too. Not that she could tell through that weird-ass birdcage helmet.

He doesn’t get the opportunity to bat in the second; he strikes out in the third, and in the fifth; he comes up to bat in the seventh, and hits a fly ball that drops just before the wall, allowing him to slide into second and thankfully a hundred feet from her. If he steals a glance her way, she doesn’t notice.

But at the end of the eighth, his forearm gets clipped by a pitch. For some reason, Johanna cheers loudly at this. Then she explains that a batter who’s hit gets to walk to first. Her heart gallops against her ribs as he strides to the plate just twenty feet from their seats, kicking at the dirt a little before turning his head to the stands.

He tilts up his helmet just enough for the sun to slant under the bill, shards of light illuminating his irises so she can see the way they follow her, pinning her to her seat even from this far.

She only manages to stare at him, her face as frozen as it’d be if she planted it in an icebox.

Somehow, her body stirs under his gaze. She feels her lungs inflating like two massive balloons. She can see that his jaw’s gone slack, as if he doesn’t know how to react, either; it’s a small comfort to understand he’s in the same boat with her.

Her heart flutters, delicate but insistent like a moth’s wings.

And then she sees his face thaw. The corner of his lip quirks as he flashes her his shy, dimpled smile.

She feels herself breathe again.

* * *

Not even ten seconds after the final strikeout, Johanna’s yanked Katniss up by the wrist and dragged her into the aisle.

“We’re gonna go see him.”

“Jo—”

“Don’t struggle. I’m stronger than you.”

Katniss doesn’t fight it, nearly tripping over her feet as her friend slices through the hordes of mildly-drunk fans. Even though she knows _who_ she’s being taken to, she isn’t sure _where_ they’re going. However, she has no choice but to follow as they dart past the front gates, past the lemonade stand, around the playground and the carousel and back toward a bridge. Underneath the bridge stretches a ramp, leading up to where Katniss presumes the locker rooms are. A metal fence keeps them from diving down, but she sees a child extending a dusty baseball over the bars, which are just low enough so that a player walking by stretches up on his tiptoes to sign the souvenir.

Players of both teams file out from the field, passing under the bridge on their way to the locker rooms. Some tip their caps, some sign autographs, and one of the older-looking players hops over the rail at the top of the ramp to meet his wife and son.

Katniss is sure her heart’s about to detonate from all the building tension. She wonders if Peeta will come meet her, or if he’ll just tip his cap and continue to walk on, as if she’s nothing more than an ordinary fan. What if he doesn’t even look at her?

Just before she works herself into a second panic attack, she sees a blue cap fringed with blonde curls appear from under the bridge, its owner’s chin angled upward. She realizes, suddenly, that he’s looking for her, too.

A trill of electricity flurries through her veins when he finds her, his eyes drilling into hers. This time, there’s no wide-eyed, slackened-jawed delay before he breaks out into a grin, his thick hands finding purchase on the concrete wall as he hoists himself up. Before she can even catch her breath, he’s vaulted over the railing, his baseball cap flying off and back onto the ramp.

Without hesitation, he takes her into his arms.

He smells like sweat and grass stains, a damp warmth radiating through his shirt and sticking to her own skin. With anyone else, she’d probably be disgusted.

But with him, she feels almost liberated.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says against her neck before he pulls back, blue eyes twinkling in the afternoon sun.

“I think you’re forgetting that this is _my_ town.” She reaches up to wipe a streak of dirt from his cheek. But once her thumb brushes his skin, she pauses – what is she doing?

How is this so _easy_?

If he’s wondering the same thing, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he lifts a hand to touch her braid as she retracts her own fingers.

“You look the same, Katniss.”

She doesn’t know how to respond, so she just smiles. While she wants to be startled by how relaxed she’s already become around him, all she can feel is relief; somewhere, deep down, she knew this was how it’d always be with him. Always easy. Always right.

He looks past her for a moment, waving at her friend. “Hey, Johanna. Nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you, too, Mellark. How’s Odair?”

Peeta laughs. “Still causing a riot down in Texas. Just got engaged, actually.”

“Huh. Always keeping people on their toes, I see,” Johanna says, her hand moving to cup Katniss’s shoulder. The gesture snaps Peeta’s attention back to Katniss, his eyes raking over her. Her chest ignites when she sees his tongue dart out over his lips – probably unconsciously, but still so indicative.

Johanna coughs. “So, as much as I _love_ third-wheeling, I think my time could be better spent. How about I go run some errands I’ve been putting off for the weekend? You two can catch up.”

Katniss’s eyes widen. “Johanna, you don’t have to—”

“I hold myself personally responsible for your courtship.” Her eyes twinkle. “It was fun seeing you again, Brainless. But there will be more time in the future.”

She envelopes Katniss in a short hug, bidding her goodbye. And then, before Katniss can even gather her bearings, her friend has skipped off toward the gate, a sweaty and inconceivably handsome Peeta Mellark now the recipient of her undivided attention.

He’s watching her like her skin’s made of diamonds.

“You’re—this is un _real_ ,” he says, his voice a thin breath.

Heat prickles under the skin of her cheeks, and her gaze drops to his cleats. “I had no idea you’d be here,” she tells him honestly. “Johanna – well, you know Jo. Always going behind my back to sneak me into things.”

His fingers skim over her elbow, and where he touches her, her skin shimmers with raw voltage. “I’m glad she did.” He pauses. “ _So_ glad.”

His voice is heavy, braced with some unfamiliar emotion; her chin shoots up, her gaze finding fat pupils and flushed cheeks.

“Let me buy you dinner.” When she frowns and opens her mouth, his smile turns pleading. “Please?”

But how could she reject him? If an evening they shared over a year ago still commands her so strongly – if she still feels more for a boy that she spoke with for one hour than anyone she’s ever met before – what makes her think it’s in her power to decline?

What makes he think she would _want_ to decline?

She feels her cheeks tense, and after a few moments, she realizes it’s from her smile.

“I’d like that,” she says.

* * *

Warmth emanates from the pavement, seeping through Katniss’s shorts. She’s perched just outside the ballpark as she waits for Peeta to shower and change into street clothes, her back against the tin siding. She can feel her muscles tensing. As each minute passes, her certainty in them, or in  _herself_ , begins to wane – what does she think she’s doing, going to dinner with a boy she hasn’t spoken to in months? One who’s a professional baseball player, who’s grossly out of her league, who’s beautiful and kind and  _perfect_ and  _so much better_ than she deserves? He should be with a girl whose emotions are navigable, someone who isn’t so romantically inept and persistently tongue-tied.

Her fears build, one on top of the other, nearing a threatening peak.

Then Peeta comes.

He’s wearing dark-wash jeans and a cotton tee, one that happens to be her favorite shade of green. He couldn’t have known this, since she never told him her favorite color, but something about the shade helps to soothe her pulse, and she stands to meet him on the sidewalk.

His hair is slightly damp but already curling out around his ears. He smells like laundry detergent.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet enough to let her know he’s nervous, too. It’s this, and just his presence in general, that causes all her previous qualms to swan-dive straight into the ground.

She’s safe.

“Um— _hi_.”

(And still hopelessly articulate.)

“What do you say we go to Sae’s?” he requests, his eyes are glimmering. “Someone once told me the macaroni there is _legendary._ ”

She tucks a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, avoiding his eyes. “That’s a, uh—a pretty fair endorsement.”

“So, have I won you over?”

When her gaze flickers up to his, she finds him grinning down on her, but there’s something else pegging up the corners of his mouth – nervousness, maybe? Over what? Her potential rejection?

As if she could turn him down.

With a bob of her head, she admits, “Completely.”

He relaxes and beams down at her, his expression as bright and warming as sunlight.

Without further ado, Peeta leads Katniss to his car. The ride to the bar is filled predominantly with small-talk, and while it isn’t uncomfortable – he hasn’t yet grown out of rambling, so the awkward silences are few and far between – she can feel something else bubbling under the superficial banter. As he babbles on about his new teammates and how he’s acclimating to Omaha, she can’t help but wonder what the pleasantries are covering up. It feels like a thick fog around her ankles, still allowing her to move forward but hiding any pitfalls in her path.

On a Thursday night, Sae’s is relatively calm with a few patrons scattered along the bar and at tables here and there. It’s slow enough that once they enter, Sae herself is able to greet them at the door, her calloused fingers mangling a dirty dishtowel as she approaches.

“My, my, girl! It’s been ages!”

Katniss’s entire body flares with pink heat, prematurely suffering from her imminent humiliation. “I just saw you last week, Sae.”

“I didn’t mean since the last time I saw you.” Deep wrinkles web out from the corners of her eyes as she gives them her doughy smile. “I meant, since the last time I saw you with _company._ ”

And there it is.

The musical sound of Peeta’s chuckle doesn’t help – isn’t he supposed to be on _her_ side? – and she only flushes deeper, convinced she’s probably a ripened shade of plum at this point. “Jesus, Sae. Give me a break.”

“Honey, I’m not criticizing you,” she laughs, touching Katniss’s cheek. Her hands smell of dish soap, and a little like bourbon. “I’m _celebrating_. It’s not every day you turn up here with a boy, much less a _cute_ one.” She winks and then turns to Peeta, extending a hand. “Be kind to this one, kid. She needs all the TLC she can get.”

Katniss has never before felt a strong urge to drown herself in shots of vodka, but she supposes there’s a first time for everything.

“I wouldn’t dare do otherwise,” Peeta replies with a little laugh. He takes her hand in a firm handshake. “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m—”

“The ball player who wooed her last year?” When Katniss looks to Peeta, she finds his ears blooming with scarlet much like her own. “Nothing could make me forget the only boy who’s ever turned Katniss into mush.”

“We’ll take a booth,” she growls, her throat, face, and chest burning. She wants to curl up on the floor and melt into the veneer.

Proud smile and all, Sae leads them to a booth toward the back of the tavern. The polychrome lampshade overhead shrouds the seats in a dim gold, and Katniss is almost grateful for the poor lighting; maybe this way, her blushes won’t be as obvious to Peeta.

He makes her blush a lot, she realizes.

As Sae departs to grab their drinks, Katniss slumps in the booth, her face falling in her hands.

“I swear, that woman’s sole purpose in life is to humiliate me.”

The heels of her palms are shoved hard enough against her lids that freckles of red flurry through the black, thankfully preventing her from seeing his reaction, but the delicate sound of his laughter is enough to fill in the blanks.

“She’s a riot,” he says. “I can’t believe she remembers me.”

_You’re not easy to forget_. Her palms fall from her face, thumping against the wood of the table. Daring to look at him, she finds his eyes wide as saucers and his lips slightly parted, as if she’s just sprouted a second nose.

And then she realizes why – she must’ve said that out loud.

Peeta must sense her distress right away, however, because he reaches across the table, his fingers feathering over the insides of her wrist. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re not easy to forget, either.”

Goosebumps dust up the length of her arm, sending shivers along her spine, down to her core. Her stomach twists – but not unpleasantly – as a strange warmth begins to anchor there. It feels almost the way hot cocoa tastes, frothy but rich as it sloshes around in her belly. Unconsciously, her thighs clench.

“Don’t you find that funny?” she says, her voice no stronger than a chicklet’s peep.

“Find what funny?”

She leaves her wrists bared for him, wishing he’ll brush them again. It felt too good.

“How we didn’t.” Her throat bobs. “Forget each other, I mean.”

She risks a glance his way, finding his cheeks dimpled in a soft smile.

“There’s a lot about… _this_ —” He motions at the table between them—“that I don’t understand. It all seems so flukey, you know?”

“I’ll say.”

She almost melts when he at last indulges her, the pads of his fingertips finding her wrists again. But this time, they dance along the blue veins scribbled under the skin there, as if he’s tattooing the feel of himself into her flesh.

“After I went back to Texas last year, I tried to rationalize it all,” he begins, his voice arching in the way it always does when he’s about to kick off a signature Peeta-rant. “I tried to justify why I felt the way I did when Johanna first pointed you out to me and Finnick, and when you shook my hand, and when you blushed virtually every time I spoke—”

The mere mention of her biological weakness causes her face to flush, as expected. He chuckles in response.

“It’s cute, Katniss.”

She blushes deeper.

“Anyway—” The smile in his voice twists up the corners of his words—“I just… I want you to know that I don’t have an answer. For why I feel the way I do, I mean. I don’t expect you to understand because even _I_ don’t understand it myself. But I—I guess I feel, well, _drawn_ to you, if that makes sense? Jesus, that sounds corny. Maybe it is.”

Her whole body is tingling.

“I live in Nebraska,” she grumbles. “I live for corn.”

He laughs harder at this than he should, his palm smacking against the table’s surface. “Now _that_ was corny.”

Naturally, she wants to be mortified with herself, but with the way he looks at her – as if she’s plated in gold – she can’t help but feel radiant. It sends a jolt down to her core, amplifying the warmth she’d felt before.

His laughter tapers as Sae brings them their drinks, eyeing them suspiciously while she sets the two glasses of water on the table.

“Katniss, are you feeling okay? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you actually look _happy._ ”

Unsurprisingly, Katniss scowls. “Remind me why I tolerate you.”

“Strictly for my mac n’ cheese.”

“Right.” Katniss’s fist uncurls on the table. “Speaking of mac n’ cheese—”

“Quite a bold decision, girl,” Sae drones, sarcasm wedged in every syllable. “And for you, Mr. Right?”

“I’ll have the same.”

“Two mac n’ cheeses for the lovebirds, coming right up.” She grins at Peeta conspiratorially before plodding back toward the kitchen.

When she’s out of ear-shot, Katniss slaps her palm against her forehead.

“I’m going to kill that woman.”

“At least wait until _after_ she’s brought us our food,” he laughs. “I’ve been fantasizing about this macaroni for a year now.”

“You could’ve come here, you know,” she says, her voice quieter than expected. “You’ve been in Omaha for a few weeks now, right?”

There’s something in her words that makes his expression cloud, the flicker in his blue eyes dimming.

“I—I knew you came here a lot.” His voice is hesitant. “I was, uh… I was afraid I’d run into you.”

The brutal honesty isn’t anything knew from him, so it shouldn’t startle her. And yet it does.

She leans back in the booth, her fingers automatically flying to her braid. She tugs on the end nervously, swallowing through a rapidly-drying throat.

“Oh.”

It’s a pathetic response, but she doesn’t know what else to say.

“Look, it wasn’t like I didn’t want to see you,” he tries to explain.

But her fingers still feel stiff as metal as they pinch her braid. “You don’t have to defend yourself, Peeta. I get it.” Her mouth tastes suddenly sour.

“I don’t think you do.” Peeta says this too kindly for her rage to flare, but still, her eyes snap to his.

“What do you mean?

“I wanted to call you. I almost did, two or three times.”

“You could’ve.”

His eyes are sad. “You told me not to, Katniss.”

Her jaw pops open, her own defense mobilized on the tip of her tongue – _What do you mean, I told you not to?_ – but her memory of their last phone call knocks her flat before she can even find her voice.

_I guess we try and forget._

She told him to forget her, so he treated her as if he had.

But he hadn’t. And neither had she.

She startles when she feels his fingers on her hand, the one that’s anxiously tangling itself in her braid, gently pulling it away. It’s the exact same gesture as last year, the sensation sending her back to the previous June. The air in her lungs feel like thumb tacks. She wants to say something, but she isn’t good at saying something.

But, as always, her silence is enough for him to understand her.

“I don’t blame you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I get that none of this is easy for you. You—you do what you can to protect yourself, right? And that’s fine. You had every right to step away from it. I mean—God, we literally spoke for one night. Even _I_ didn’t think I’d ever see you again, so… so I get it.” His lips quirk up, smile soft but genuine. “It doesn’t matter anymore, though. We’re here now.”

The corners of her own mouth begin to twitch. “Yeah.”

“So, let’s celebrate. With macaroni and ice water.”

She smirks. “How glamorous.”

“And then we can try to do this whole thing the right way. Whatever this is.” He clears his throat. “If you’ll allow it, of course.”

Katniss looks him over, drinking in his lopsided smile, broad shoulders, innocent eyes. Maybe it’s the combination of all those things that calm her, or maybe it’s the presence of a different ingredient entirely; whatever it is, it eliminates her doubt, leaving her at ease, certain, and eager.

Her muscles unwind.

“I’ll allow it.”

* * *

Katniss curves a hand over her stomach as she trails Peeta to his car, absolutely stuffed from the macaroni and sated from their conversation.

They spoke for nearly two hours this time, about summer, baseball, art majors, Netflix, high school track, and virtually everything else that came pouring from Peeta’s mouth. Which was a lot, considering the kid can talk at a mile a minute.

As they approach his car, however, the high from the night gives way to the sudden wave of nostalgia, brought on by the déjà vu that smacks her flat.

The wind is warm, gentle and thick, whipping the downy hairs at the base of her neck, hugging her skin. The world smells like grass and heated pavement; in the back of her mind, she can hear a drunk Johanna giggling, Finnick belching, Peeta’s breath against her ear, cheek, lips…

“Do you feel that, too?” she finds herself asking.

They’ve reached the car, and Peeta stops at her words, turning to look at her. Shavings of moonlight cut across his face, illuminating his fat pupils.

“It’s like it’s last year all over again,” he whispers. There’s a huskiness there that makes her lower belly tingle. “Only I’m not about to leave this time.”

“Nope.” She takes a step inward, daring to flatten her palm against his chest. “You’re stuck here.”

“By some miracle, brought to you by the magical contract fairies.”

Her fingers tremble against his heartbeat’s steady cadence, the rhythm pulsing its way into her own system.

“What does this mean for…” She can’t bring herself to say it – the word _us_ seems too ceremonial, to final, and what if he doesn’t want that from her?

But he just smiles, shifting closer until the tips of his shoes brush against her sandals.

“I think it means we keep seeing each other,” he says, his mouth close enough for her lips to tingle under the curl of his breath. “To make sure that this is real.”

She’s already sure, though. She doesn’t know how she’s so certain about him, having only connected with him on two separate occasions, but she just is. Somehow. Miraculously.

“Do you think it is?” she asks. “Real, I mean?

Tiny wrinkles thread the corners of his eyes as he smiles through the gloom. “What else explains the flu-like symptoms?”

“Headache? Fatigue?”

“Fever, chills, sudden dizziness. You know, the usual.”

She’s smiling like an idiot. What the hell is wrong with her?

He lifts his finger to tap her on the nose. “You know, you should do that more often.”

“Hmm?”

Her whole body jolts when he cups her cheek, but she relaxes against him as his thumb begins swiping over her lower lip.

“Smile,” he says.

His mouth is just inches from her own now, her chest tight as its tugged upward by some invisible thread. His other arm moves to curl around her waist, and her fingers knot themselves in his shirt, keeping him close.

In the moonlight, his eyelashes look as if they’re made from white gold, tangling together. She wants to feel them on her cheek. She wants to feel him. She wants _him_ , his lips, his hands, his everything. She’s never wanted anything from anyone else before.

This is how she knows it’s real.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” he whispers.

_Please, please, please._

But, feeling a little bold: “What about those flu-like symptoms?”

He chuckles. “Sharing is caring, you know,” he says, nudging her nose with his own as his thumb brushes her lip once more.

His arm tightens around her waist. She can taste his breath. His pupils have almost completely swallowed their blue perimeters. She wants him. Just like she did on that June evening a year ago, only now she wants him more, more, more.

Suddenly, and not suddenly at all, his mouth slants over hers.

It’s like mounting a bike after two years of not riding, or picking up a piece of sheet music from high school choir, or tracing an old lover’s name in the sand. The touch of his lips feels completely new, but once they part against hers, everything floods back. The soft pressure, the gentle flick of her tongue, the little moans – they’re instinctive and novel at the same time, and she can taste in his kiss that it’s the same for him, too. His fingers weave themselves in her roots, hooking her to him as he tilts her head back to kiss her more fully; he sighs against her mouth, then breathes her in.

It’s patient until it’s not, careful until it’s confident. He backs her up against the car, his hand gentle but firm as it curls against her hip bone. She tugs him closer to sandwich herself between him and the vehicle; the snugness is dizzying in the most pleasant way.

While kissing him feels like second nature, the fire searing its way through her core’s lining is entirely unfamiliar. She’d felt something like it when they first kissed, but now it’s impossible to ignore. It stems from her belly up through her systems, jetting through her arms and in her fingertips, urging her to pull him closer, flatter against her. She feels his entire body against her, which is something she always thought would be too much. But now, it’s not enough.

And hell, does _not enough_ feel so perfect. The shallow breaths, the eager fingers, the racing heartbeats… it’s something she never thought she could want, only now realizing it’s what she needs. She needs him.

She’ll tell him, she decides. Not now, however, because her lips are otherwise preoccupied.

His palm continues to caress her jaw even after his lips have drawn back, his forehead tilting against hers so they can catch their breath. A chorus of crickets sings around them, the wind slipping in ribbons around their bare skin. If she could, she’d freeze this moment so she could stay in it forever.

A shiver trills through her as his fingers leave her cheek, tracing down her braid to touch the tip.

“That was incredible,” he pants.

Her cheeks flush, but this time, she’s not embarrassed. With him, there’s no time for things as frivolous as shame.

She tastes his chuckle, his breath cool against her wet mouth. “So, how are you feeling?” he asks. “Any flu-like symptoms yet?”

Her fingers release his shirt, palms grazing up from his chest to his neck, curving around the back to braid themselves in his curls.

“Not yet,” she says, feeling so invincible under his gaze. “We might want to share a little longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on Tumblr at the-peeta-pocket. We can have a grand ol' time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final installment! Hurrah.
> 
> Warning: A tad bit of smut ahead.

Katniss never thought she’d say this, but she actually _enjoys_ baseball games.

Not the sport itself – for God’s sake, Katniss could army-crawl across the entire state of Nebraska in the time it takes some pitchers to throw one damn ball – but now that she knows most of the players, and has a sweaty boy to meet up with afterward, she doesn’t mind coming to watch the home games.

She and Peeta have a nice ritual, anyway. Katniss wastes three hours of her waning summer days in the hot sun, meets him at the ramp, waits out by his car while he showers, then lets him drive her back to his apartment. Or her apartment, if her mom’s working the late shift and won’t be home. (He still has yet to meet her mother, even though he pesters her about it constantly. He actually thinks it’s because she’s embarrassed of _him_ , that silly boy.)

It’s the middle of August – nearing the end of both his regular season and her summer break – and it seems like a normal evening. Peeta’s hair is still slightly damp from his post-game shower as he lies between her legs on the couch, his back flat against her stomach, skull nestled snugly over her small breasts. They’re watching TV as he lets his muscles relax, and she’s playing with his curls, because nothing – not even _Toddlers & Tiaras_ – could ever be as fascinating as his hair.

“Hey, you know how I have that home stretch the weekend before you go back to school?” he brings up randomly, fingers dancing along the ridge of her foot. Despite its awkwardness, this is one of their favorite positions; she messes with his curls or rubs his neck while he gives her a foot massage (as if she was the one who was squatting behind the plate for three hours). It’s really just an excuse to touch each other.

She waits for a while before she hums back an affirmative.

“Well, um…” He shifts slightly against her body. “I don’t know if you want to go.”

“Of _course_ I want to go!” Her hand falls limply against his shoulder. “I’ve been suffering through a whole month of your games. Can’t stop now.”

“Ah, so it’s an endurance test. And here I was, thinking you went to actually see _me_.”

“You poor, misguided soul.”

He chuckles, but then falls silent. His thumb curves against the arch of her foot; she stifles a moan.

And then he stops. He flips himself around, his stomach flat against the cushions between her legs. He holds himself up by his elbows, right over her crotch. _Shouldn’t this boy know that isn’t a smart place to be?_ “Look, you know how much I love when you come see me play.”

“Well, your coach doesn’t,” she adds with a thick swallow, eyeing him in his proximity. “You’ve clearly chosen me over your batting average.”

He curls out his bottom lip. “Be kind, child. All players have slumps.”

She’s watching him intently, waiting for him to notice what his chin is literally three inches from. Considering they haven’t gone past second base in the full month they’ve been dating – Peeta never tries anything Katniss doesn’t explicitly ask for, and since Katniss is about as sexually adventurous as a cotton ball, she isn’t explicitly asking for _anything_ – she assumes he’ll shy away. But he remains hopelessly oblivious. And hopelessly _close_.

“Anyway,” he continues, resting his cheek in his palm as he gazes up at her. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“The slump?”

He chuckles. “No, me banishing you from the three games.”

“Why am I being banished?”

He rubs his eyes, clenching his jaw.

“My parents finally decided to show a little team spirit.”

Oh. _Oh._

“So they’re coming down from Illinois?”

“Couldn’t tell you why.” He scratches the back of his neck. “They never thought a College World Series game was worth the trip, so why a random home stretch in the middle of September seems so appealing…”

“It’s your slump, I tell you. They know you’ll be fired by the end of the season. _It’s our last chance to see little Peety play, dear_!”

“Well, you officially showed more sentiment in one sentence than they have in my entire life,” he says as he moves up her body, “so, just a wild guess: That’s probably not it.”

He’s never talked much about his family, just as she hasn’t talked much about hers. Their communication is fairly gold-leaf otherwise, but it’ll take a lot longer than a mere month for her open up her whole heart for him. And, as accessible and conversational as he is, she knows there’s parts of him he has sealed off, too. It’s only fair.

She cups his cheeks as he flattens himself over her, his body deliciously heavy against her own. _Toddlers & Tiaras_ entirely forgotten, she says, “Maybe they’re just trying to be supportive.”

“Maybe.” His kisses the tip of her nose. “I’m not getting my hopes up.”

“You can count on me to stay away, though. I’ll go full-on Boo Radley. Never leave my mom’s apartment.”

He chuckles, but it doesn’t completely reach his eyes. “I’m only asking you to avoid my parents’ warpath, not hide in a dark room all weekend.”

“Hey, I did it for _years_ before I met _you_ ,” she says as mawkishly as possible, and he laughs, pressing a short kiss to her lips.

“I still want to see you, though.” Another kiss. “A _lot._ ” Yet another kiss. “That’s our last weekend before you go back to school.”

“I’ll just be an hour away, Peeta.” She says this against his lips, because he’s suddenly become very affectionate. Not that she’s complaining. “Once your season’s over, you can come up whenever you want. Stay in my apartment all day long.

“It’ll be _my_ turn to go Boo Radley.”

“Ah, we bring out the best in each other,” she giggles against his lips. Although it’s meant as a joke, he snakes one of his arms underneath her, locking her flat against him.

“We really do, though.” And then his lips voyage down to her neck, suckling gently on her collar. As she gasps and writhes underneath him, he whispers, “Thank you for being so understanding.”

She braids her fingers in his curls, content to let him think she’s _being so understanding_ , when really, the only person who wants to see Peeta’s parents less than Peeta is her.

* * *

The time she would’ve devoted to cheering on Peeta from behind home plate has now been reallocated to the glorious art of packing. Theoretically, she should’ve mastered this skill by now since it’s the fourth year she’s done it, but the day she actually remembers to bring along extra hangers is the day hell freezes over.

Peeta stopped by early this morning before heading to pick his parents up from the airport. He was unbelievably nervous, which translated into him being unbelievably clingy, and she had to literally shove him out the front door to get him to leave.

“I’ll call you before the game,” he promised, “and after the game, and sometime later tonight after I drop my parents off at the hotel. _If_ I drop my parents off at the hotel. I might end up in a roadside ditch before then.”

“You’re being a drama queen,” she said, propelling him out of her entryway.

“Where’s the sympathy?”

“Probably in a roadside ditch.”

He didn’t think she was being funny.

He called her once he got to the ballpark, complaining about how his mother had already mentioned twice how badly the bakery was doing on account of _not having enough helping hands_. Which was, according to him, her passive-aggressive way of telling him he was an idiot for choosing baseball over baking.

He didn’t end up calling her after the game, which was okay – maybe he got swept up in a heartfelt conversation with his parents, in which they apologized for all their wrongdoings and proclaimed their love for him. Regardless, she ate her microwave meal with the phone right next to her elbow so that if he did call, she’d be able to answer in a heartbeat.

After her meagre dinner – and dinner was always meagre when Peeta wasn’t involved – she went back to her room, shoving some of her favorite books into a box, folding up clothes, procrastinating with an hour of Netflix, rifling through her office supplies.

Now, it’s almost eleven o’clock by the time her phone finally rings. She leap-frogs over her mound of undergarments to snatch up the device, flattening it against her ear.

“You aren’t in a roadside ditch,” she laughs breathily.

“I wish I was.” He sounds like someone shoved a cheese grater down his throat. “Believe me.”

“Uh oh. What happened?”

“The annual Mellark family grill-out. Say hello to Peeta, your resident bratwurst.”

She fell back onto her twin bed, its old springs croaking underneath her. “They couldn’t have been _that_ bad…”

“No, _they_ weren’t bad. Dad was fine, actually, but that wasn’t really a surprise. He’s never been much of a talker, anyway.”

“I see you take after him,” she jokes, trying to lighten the situation.

But he just groans. “Actually, I take after my mother, who doesn’t know _when to shut the hell up._ ”

This is different. She’s not used to seeing Peeta frustrated. He’s always been so level-headed – in touch with his emotions, but not _emotional_. Clearly, something’s wrong.

“What’d she say?” Katniss asks, even though she’s afraid to know the answer.

Peeta must be breathing through clenched teeth, because a sharp whistling sound pierces the line.

“She asked me about you. About _everything._ ”

Katniss’s stomach whirls. “How… how much did you tell her?”

“I didn’t—I tried not to tell her much. I left out the whole narrative of how we met, because Mother’s the farthest thing from a hopeless romantic, and knowing her son actually has _feelings_ would probably bring on the apocalypse. So when she asked if I was seeing anyone, I just said I’d met a nice girl in Omaha. Any sane person would just accept that, right?”

“Right!” She punches the air for dramatic effect and then remembers he can’t see her.

“Well, apparently the idea of me seeing an _Omaha_ girl was repulsive enough, and she asked more about you. Family background, education, you know. Typical aristocratic bullshit, only we’re not even remotely wealthy, so I don’t know where she gets the palate.”

“What’d you say?”

(Why does she dread his answer so much?)

Peeta sighs, his tone smoothing out. “That—that _stuff_ , you know that isn’t how I judge you, right? I like you because you’re a stellar girl and you’re misguided enough to think my cooking is good.”

That should make her feel better. On some level, she supposes it does, but shouldn’t he care at least a _little_ about the other stuff, too? Like how she barely has a family to speak of? And that her social status is about as high as a whale’s mating call?

So, more quietly this time, she repeats, “What’d you say?”

“I told her about what mattered.” His voice is gentle. “I said you’re a year younger than me, so you’re still in school. I said you come to my games. I said you make me happy.”

“Please tell me it ended there,” Katniss rasps.

“Katniss, if it ended there, I’d be doing celebratory tequila shots with you in my apartment right now.” He lets out something of a tortured groan. “Jesus, I don’t even know if I can remember the rest. It was just too awful for my poor, innocent mind to register.”

“What _do_ you remember?”

“Enough. But I’m not about to get into it now. If I ever do force you to suffer through the specifics, I’m going to have a batch of apologetic cookies on standby. Which I don’t.”

“I could go for cookies,” she says, absentmindedly.

He breathes through his nose in a way that makes her imagine him smiling.

“Cookies do sound great right now.” There’s a brief silence. “Hey, you should come over.”

“ _What_?”

“We can bake cookies. I can beat my anger into the batter.”

“Peeta, it’s—it’s past _eleven._ ” She says _eleven_ in the same way suburban soccer mom might say _homosexual_ , which is naturally met by Peeta’s musical laughter.

“I know, what with your _bedtime_ and all,” he teases. And then, after a short pause: “Don’t try to tell me junk food doesn’t taste ten times better after midnight.”

“Peeta—”

“I want to see you, Katniss.” His voice is suddenly serious. “So badly.”

Well, she’s never been able to resist Peeta Mellark before, so why start now?

* * *

By the time the cookies are in the oven, it’s past midnight, and Katniss feels like her bones are made of overcooked spaghetti noodles. She offers to help clean up the mess, but Peeta just gives her a spoonful of batter, pats her on the head and sends her to go relax on the sofa.

She’s absentmindedly laving at the doughy spoon when Peeta joins her on the couch, plunking on the cushions beside her. “Thanks for indulging me,” he chuckles.

“I mean, if I get cookies out of the deal…”

“I see where your loyalties lie.” He smiles easily at her as she finishes up the last of the batter.

She sets the spoon on the coffee table as he positions himself against the opposite armrest. When she’s upright, he beckons her closer, and she leans her back against his chest, snuggling into the warmth of his body. His arms fall over her shoulders, overlapping on her stomach, his thumb gently brushing her hip bone.

“So,” she begins slowly, choosing her words carefully. “Do those, uh… count as apologetic cookies?”

The planes of muscles underneath her grow rigid.

“Katniss…” His lips are in her hair. “I—I don’t really want to get into it. It’s pointless, really.”

“I’m curious,” she whines. _And you know what they say_ , she thinks, _Curiosity killed the Katniss._

“I know. But I’d rather leave you curious than upset. Katniss, they’re just not good people. _She’s_ not a good person.”

She wants to fight it, but even though his voice is gentle, the adamancy there is unmistakable. Peeta would probably prefer getting struck in the jaw by a fastball to saying something that could potentially hurt her; like the sword in the stone, he isn’t going to budge on this one.

 She wriggles slightly in his arms, allowing herself to rest her cheek on his chest. His thumping heartbeat soothes her, the rhythm a natural metronome to steady her own pulse.

“Wake me up when the cookies are done,” she yawns.

With the way he cradles her small body against his, her stomach begins flapping around like a parade of bat wings. The hand behind her props up her back as  it curls around to her hip, the one in the front moving to hold her cheek, brushing her hair from her face.

“I’m sorry for guilting you into stress-baking with me,” he says after a long pause. She startles a little.

But then she calms, winding her fingers in his shirt as she nuzzles her head more snugly into the space below his chin. “I was a willing participant.”

“If you’re tired, I—I can drive you home.”

The idea of her shaded apartment sends the corners of her lips twisting downward. She doesn’t want to go home. She doesn’t even want to move, considering that unless it involves a sea of Tempur-Pedic mattresses, nothing could be more comfortable than lying on Peeta’s chest.

She groans at the thought, clinging more stubbornly to his shirt. He’ll have to break out the pliers if he wants to reclaim his personal bubble.

But her obduracy only makes him chuckle, his arms flexing around her.

“You know, if you’re okay with it… you can, uh, stay here for the night.”

She stiffens.

“You—you have a game tomorrow.”

“Not until seven. I don’t even have to meet my parents until lunch. So it’s not really a problem on my end.” He exhales against her forehead. “If you’re not comfortable with it, _no probemo_. The slumber-party stage of our relationship can wait.”

Her pulse is racing in her wrists and temples – she wonders if he can feel it. She’s not ready to be intimate with Peeta yet, not on account of her aversion to the idea, but on account of the fact she hasn’t given it any serious thought in the first place. While she knows she’s insanely attracted to him, as well as more comfortable around him than anyone before him, she hasn’t considered the extent of that attraction. How far is she willing to go? Letting him cup her breasts over her shirt? Or exhausting every pointer in the latest issue of Cosmopolitan?

Her hesitation must speak volumes, because suddenly Peeta’s tilting her chin up. “We don’t—we can just sleep, Katniss. I’m not expecting anything else. I could even take the couch, if you want…”

His eyes are wide and near pleading, and their innocence is enough to placate her nerves. She relaxes against him.

“There won’t be any need for that.”

He’s beaming down at her like a third grader pre-birthday-cake, even though he tries (pathetically) to hide it. “I’ll stay on my side of the bed. I promise. If I even so much as poke a finger over the invisible line, punch me. Or steal all the covers. Yeah, steal the covers. I probably deserve that.”

He’s ridiculous. He’s also perfect.

“I won’t be stealing any blankets. Or intentionally injuring you. As long as I get to be fully clothed, I’m good.”

He kisses her forehead. “You can borrow my footie pajamas. Or, as I like to call them, my twenty-first century chastity belt.” Then he coughs awkwardly. “Don’t ask where I got them.”

“You’re a gem, Mellark,” she laughs.

With a smile, he bops the tip of her nose with his finger.

“Takes one to know one.”

* * *

In the morning, only a brief bout of disorientation passes before she remembers where she is, or more importantly, who she’s with. A wet breeze filters through the open window, the wide expanse of grey beyond blocking out the sunlight. This is the perfect day to stay in bed, only leaving to finish off the cookies left from the previous night.

Too bad _someone_ has obligations.

But, for now, neither of them are going anywhere. The nightstand clock reads 9:17, meaning they have at least an hour and a half before necessary extraction. Two hours if they’re feeling particularly brave.

So she snuggles deeper against his chest, looping her own arms around the ones that’d been holding her when she woke up. She presses her lips to his wrist. This is the first time she’s gone to sleep in a guy’s bed, the first time she awoke to shameless spooning, and now, she doesn’t ever want to go back.

His arms tighten around her, his breath fanning deliciously over her neck, so he must be awake, too.

She pouts. “It looks like shit outside.”

With a light chuckle, he bows his knees into the backs of hers, curling around her like shrink wrap. Apart from the cords and planes of muscle, his body is soft, warm and inviting; cuddling isn’t exactly a new art for them, but in the morning, when everything feels like it’s made of feathers, she thinks she’s finally reached cloud nine.

“Maybe the game will be postponed,” he murmurs against her hair. “Or, better yet, maybe my parents’ hotel will be flooded, and I won’t have to pick them up for lunch.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

He sighs languorously. “A girl can dream, can’t she?”

Her shoulders tremble in a fit of silent giggles, until she feels him kissing her neck, and then she melts. His lips are slow and reverent against the skin just below her jaw, the strawberry-sized patches cutting white-hot heat through her chest, down her spine and to the juncture of her thighs. It startles her a little, but not enough to tear her away from it; she lolls her head to the side, giving him better access.

And oh, what he does with the increased surface area. The gentle touches soon graduate to long, open-mouthed kisses, and she lets a sigh dribble from her tongue, grasping his arms as she presses flatter against his chest. When he softly pulls the flesh into his mouth, her hips roll back. It’s unintentional at first, but as she curves against him, she hears a quiet moan collect in the back of his throat. Emboldened, she does it again, and feels his arms tighten around her. She listens to the way his breath grows shallow as she rocks back again, again, again—

Suddenly, his hands are on her hips, stilling her movements.

“I wouldn’t keep doing that,” he chuckles darkly.

Because she’s a troublemaker at heart, and for good measure, she rolls back against him one more time, savoring the soft sigh that hisses through his clenched teeth.

“You, Ms. Everdeen, are going to be the death of me.” And then his hands slide around, winding over her stomach. “That is, if my parents don’t beat you to it.”

“Stop worrying about them,” she says, wriggling in his grasp so she can turn around to face him. His hair is an absolute mess, his blonde waves unevenly parted up in a not-there-before cow lick, and she struggles not to laugh at him. “Look, I know you’re stressed out. But they’re only here through tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but _you’re_ only here through tomorrow, too.”

Since classes are kicking off Monday, she blacked out Sunday as her moving day. “I’m also only forty-five minutes away. Or an hour, if you’re driving.” (Peeta Mellark drives like a grandma. Strictly right-lane.)

“But this was my last weekend with you.” His forehead tilts against hers. “And I’m spending the bulk of it with Cruella de Vil and her mute side-kick.”

“Was she always like this?”

In lieu of an actual response, Peeta stares blankly at her, his face entirely unreadable. In some way, she supposes that says it all – but what exactly _is_ it saying?

Eventually, he just shakes his head. “I don’t want to think about her. Or Dad.” His chest is suddenly flush against hers, his arm weaving around her back, engulfing her in his body heat. “I have much more important things to concern myself with.”

“Like what?” she teases, although this is something she knows the answer to.

Even so, he grins softly, responding with his lips on hers.

* * *

Peeta promised to help her move after dropping off his parents at the airport, so at five o’clock on Sunday, Katniss has barricaded herself in the parking lot with her boxes, leaning against the rusty bumper of her car as she waits for him to arrive. It’s a miracle the lemon can make it out of the apartment complex, let alone all the way to Lincoln. But the Everdeen family name has never had money to it, so it’s the best she can do.

Which is why she’s thankful for Peeta’s offer to help her move. He drives a CR-V, providing the extra trunk space that her two-door lacks.

Of course, she’s also thankful for his offer, because it gives her that much more time to see him.

He pulls into the parking lot just after five, and she knows something’s wrong the moment he steps out of the car. His eyes are pink, hair tousled beyond the expected baseball-hat-hair, his jaw set.

She’s up on her feet in a heartbeat.

“Peeta?”

He doesn’t say a word. She backs against her own car as he saunters up to her, and then suddenly his arms are around her, holding her with the insistence and might of a python, his face burying in her neck.

Automatically, she splays her fingers over his shoulders, one palm sweeping up to run through his hair as she holds him closer. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

But he’s shaking his head, his nose scraping against the juncture of her shoulder and neck. His face is hot. Barely, just barely, she can feel him trembling.

“Let’s go inside,” she whispers. “Mom’s in there, but if you want to sit down—”

“I don’t want her first impression of me to be this.” He tries to laugh, but it sounds strangled. The heels of his palms carve into the small of her back. “I’ll be fine. I just—I need to calm down. I’m so sorry.”

When he pulls back from her, she can see pain creased in the lines of his face. She strokes his cheek, hoping that’ll coax the truth right out of him, but she’s not upset when it doesn’t. She knows better than anyone what it feels like to not want to talk.

“I’ll start packing up the cars.”

With that, he gives her a weak smile, and it’s _this_ that breaks her, because on the backdrop of the thousands of winning smiles she’s seen from him, this reads as straight suffering.

Just as he’s turning to snag a box, she reaches out for his hand. When her fingers weave with his, she gives his palm a slight squeeze. It isn’t much, but it’s the best she can do.

They pack up the CR-V and the trunk of her car in silence, and when the pavement is cleared, she meets him in between their cars.

“I’ll see you in Lincoln,” she tells him, touching his shoulder. There must be something for her to say, some magic words that’ll make it all better. But she’s not good with words.

If she were the one in pain, though, she knows Peeta would’ve fixed it in a heartbeat, just as he always has. That thought makes her ribs ache. How inadequate can she be?

He gives her another hug, then a kiss on the cheek, and turns away without looking back.

On the trip to Lincoln, she tries to drown out her manic thoughts by blasting the radio, but soon she realizes the pain is in her bones, not in her head. By the time she’s on the interstate, Peeta’s overly-vigilant driving has separated him from her. She keeps looking in the review mirror, hoping to see his CR-V approaching. But it doesn’t happen.

Her apartment is about a mile off-campus, in this decrepit complex with peeling brown paint, its only virtues being its minimal rent and close proximity to a crêpe joint. She parks in the lot and waits for a solid ten minutes before Peeta pulls in.

When he meets her, she can see he’s relaxed slightly. But he looks absolutely drained.

“What took you so long?” she teases. “You get lost?”

He gives her a tired grin. “Unlike you, I abide by all traffic laws.”

“Alright, grandma.”

He surprises her by cupping her cheek, tilting her chin up to kiss her. It’s soft, sweet, but plenty.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” She touches his chest. “I just… I hope you know you can talk to me. About whatever it was. I know I’m not good at finding the right words, but I can listen, and… yeah.”

As pathetic as she sounds, the smile it elicits from him is the most genuine one she’s seen today.

“I’ll help you unpack a little first,” he says.

* * *

The reason she’s leasing this apartment is because it isn’t in the best neighborhood, and is a single-bedroom, meaning that it’s dirt cheap. The lime-crusted shower and yellowing ceilings are just nice bonuses.

However, Peeta isn’t exactly in agreement.

“You can’t live here,” he says after the third trip of boxes.

“And why is that?”

He gapes at her. “You’ll—you’ll get scabies, or cholera, or the ceiling will fall on you when you’re asleep, or someone will break through that lopsided windowsill, or—”

She brackets his jaw with her palms.

“I’m a big girl, Peeta Mellark.”

“And hopefully, very familiar with Clorox. And pepper spray.”

She pats his cheek.

When they’ve finally hauled all the boxes and her secondhand furniture inside, Peeta moves to help her unpack, but she touches his wrist.

“I can do that later,” she says. “Talk now?”

His throat bobs in a thick swallow, but after a few moments he nods. She leads him into the bedroom, which is dark and smells like stale spackle, but the bedframe and the mattress she brought along for them to curl up on are both in place.

They lie flat over the springs, a bit of raw light peeking through the shutters and patching up their figures. Avoiding her eyes, he stares dutifully at their interlaced fingers, which rest on the mattress between them.

He gulps.

He exhales.

He squeezes his eyes tight.

“She told me she doesn’t want me going back home,” he says, finally.

His fingers are stiff on hers. She feels her heart cannonball into her stomach.

“She— _what_?”

“I’m essentially exiled from the Mellark clan. For not coming home after graduation.” He pulls her hand closer, pressing the back of it against his forehead as his brow crinkles. “If I’m not helping at the bakery, she doesn’t want to see me at all.”

Anger bubbles up in Katniss’s throat. She has a million responses floating around, ranging from indignation to incredulity, but her tongue is knotted up in her mouth. Of all the things she could tell him, nothing comes out, and she hates herself for never knowing what to say.

All she manages is a soft, “Oh, _Peeta_ …”

In lieu of words, she uses her arms to comfort him, tucking his body into hers. He sighs against her collar. “I don’t know what they were expecting when they came out here. Money, maybe? I mean, my contract is nicer than a lot of guys’ are straight out of college, but… I don’t know what they wanted from me. I don’t know what I could’ve done to make them approve of me.”

She palms tender circles into his shoulders, kissing his forehead. “They’re not good people,” she says, parroting his words from two nights before, although she knows this alone isn’t adequate.

“I knew that—I _know_ that. But they’re still my family.” His fingers clench around hers. “And they don’t want me. They never did, Katniss. They never thought I was good enough, but now I’m not even of any use to them, and—”

She silences him with her mouth on his. His lips are warm even if they are trembling.

When she pulls back, she sees moisture pooling in the corners of his eyes, the tiny petals of light from the window hollowing out the color in his irises.

Suddenly, somehow, he’s still.

“Katniss, can… can I tell you something?”

In answer, she cups his cheek, her thumb brushing his lower lip.

He takes a shallow breath, and begins.

* * *

She doesn’t sleep that night. She wants to partially accredit that to the drunken romps of the tenants above her, or even to the foreignness of the apartment, but she can’t ignore the real reason.

When he told her about the abuse, she barely held herself together. He detailed the beatings, the bruises, the welts – with each detached account, she wanted to scream, or punch his mother, because how could anyone ever lay a finger on Peeta? At twenty-three, he still looks like a fucking cherub. She can’t even imagine touching him now, let alone a chubby toddler version of the Peeta she knows.

And when it was over – after he’d poured out his heart for her – he said in the most vulnerable tone she’d ever heard: _I’m sorry._

As if the cruelty was his fault. As if she could possibly think less of him.

She wanted to bundle him up in her arms and never let him go. If he didn’t have to be heading out to Sacramento first thing in the morning, she would’ve made good on that promise. So before the sun even went down, she was hugging him out by his car, dreading the moment she’d have to let go.

She unpacked for a while, texted him, cleaned the shower, waited for him to text back, plugged in her appliances, still waited for him to text back, looked over her class schedule for the week, and then plopped down in bed with her phone, just waiting, waiting, waiting. His texts were clipped and detached; she couldn’t tell if it was because he was ashamed or angry.

Now she’s here, writhing on her mattress long after midnight, knowing she won’t be catching more than fifteen minutes of sleep.

At three o’clock, when she’s officially charted and memorized all the cracks in the ceiling, her phone begins to ring. His name flits over the screen, and she answers in a heartbeat.

“Peeta?” she gasps.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” he says, his voice crackling like Rice Krispies. “I just… I wanted to thank you. For listening to me.”

Her hand flies to her chest, feeling her heart pulverize her ribs. “Of course, Peeta. I mean, since I’m not good at talking, I—I might as well lend you an ear.”

“I didn’t need you to say anything.”

“Well… good.”

“I haven’t told anyone about that before.” He coughs awkwardly. “About my mom, I mean.”

Her angry pulse stops.

“You haven’t?”

“No.” His breath drafts over the line. Then there’s a sharp inhale. “I’m not trying to burden you or anything—”

“No, I know—”

“—but I just thought you should know.” Pause. “That I trust you.”

She says surprisingly easily, “I trust you, too.”

It isn’t until after they’ve hung up, many minutes later, that she begins to wonder how much that means for them.

* * *

It’s hard enough to contact him on any away-series, but with her courses piled on top, it becomes damn near impossible. It doesn’t help that after her morning classes on city campus, she works on research with her soil science professor from last year on east campus for most of the afternoon. Then, when she’s finally settled in the apartment, Peeta’s playing a night game, meaning there’s no time for her boyfriend, just textbooks.

While the communication deficiency frustrates her, it also gives her time to think about things. About _them_.

It’s only after two days of thinking over their Sunday conversation that the gravity of it all finally pancakes her.

Peeta told her something he’s never admitted to anyone before.

They’ve only been together a month and a half at this point, which isn’t a ridiculous amount of time, but it means a lot to her. If he can trust her with that weighty of a secret after not even two months, where will they be in another month? In two, three, four, five more? In a year?

With the level of faith he has in her, in _them_ , where could they be after that?

Katniss always thought that he was her complement, that he balanced her out – he’s an avid rambler while she prefers silence, he’s a baker while she’s culinarily challenged, he’s irrationally chipper while she’s more sedated – but now she’s found a common thread, which could mean so much more for them.

They both have secrets. They’ve both been hurt.

Only now, he’s put himself out there, risking vulnerability for her.

If she trusts him, shouldn’t she be able to do the same?

* * *

Katniss has always appreciated the element of surprise, which is why she’s been sitting on Peeta’s doormat for the past two hours. After their three-game series in Sacramento from Monday to Wednesday, they followed up with a four-game series in Fresno from Thursday to Sunday. She knew the plane was due in late Sunday night, but since she was too irresponsible to check the time, she’s been stranded outside his apartment, reading over her Ecology and Evolution notes underneath the moth-freckled porch light. She’s developed a collage of mosquito bites, and her hair is doing all kinds of adventurous things. But she’s happy, because she’ll see him.

Best of all: He has absolutely no idea.

Since his apartment complex is a relatively nice one, there isn’t much foot traffic on a Sunday night, so when she hears someone thumping up the stairs, judging by the heavy footsteps, she has no doubt it’s him. It’s already ten o’clock, meaning she’ll have to stay the night and head back to campus at dawn.

But she doesn’t suppose his hospitality will take much coaxing.

She looks up from her textbook just in time to see the curly head of blonde hair poke out over the steps. His face is laced with exhaustion, which quickly morphs into confusion once he sees her.

And then, exuberance.

He drops his duffel bag as she stands, his arms coiling around her before she can even give him the customary _hi_. He smells a little like airplane, but still a lot like Peeta. Her Peeta.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, his lips brushing her ear.

She grasps at his shoulders, loving the way they flex under her palms. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

“And you did it without Johanna this time,” he chuckles.

“What can I say? I’m learning.”

“You’re also really, really warm.” He draws back, holding her arms so he can look at her. His eyes brighten as if he’s watching a comet soar through the sky. “How long have you been out here?”

Sparing him the unnecessary guilt, she shrugs. “Eh, maybe half an hour.”

“Come in, please,” he says, retrieving his duffel. “You can tell me about your first week of classes! And the scabies you’ve contracted.”

He lets her inside and slips his bag on the kitchen counter as she settles on the sofa. He’s joined her in a heartbeat, burrowing into the cushions as she stretches her legs over his lap. Instinctively, he grapples for her foot, his thumb working over the arch.

“Alright, kid. Give me all the details.”

But it’s already past ten – she came here with a purpose. There will be plenty of time to delve into pleasantries later, but right now, she can’t stray from her goal.

“Peeta, I—I actually wanted to talk to you about something.”

She doesn’t miss the way his palm falters as it works over the sole of her foot, even though he tries to play it off as nothing. “Is everything okay?”

She’s not sure how to answer that, so she doesn’t. Instead, she cuts straight to her moderately pre-prepared speech.

“You opened up to me on Sunday,” she begins quietly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever trusted me like that before. I guess that’s probably why I haven’t really trusted people, either.”

Now, he’s done attempting to cloak his concern; his fingers have stilled, his eyes drilling into hers.

“Katniss?”

“I want to tell you things, too.” She shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, and her fingers find her braid. She’s weaned herself off the nervous tick almost entirely over the past month, but in this moment, she can’t help it. “I don’t really, uh, bear my heart and soul for people. I’m not good at this.”

He leans over, stretching across the sofa to touch her hand, pulling it away from her braid. She looks up as he hovers over her, his face so close to hers that she can count the silver freckles in his eyes.

“I’d be honored,” he says softly.

She nods and latches her fingers onto his shirt, pulling him down beside her on the sofa. He’s sandwiched between her and the back cushions now, but by the way he snuggles up to her chest, she can’t imagine he wants to complain.

She takes a deep breath.

“You’ve been really good about… well, about not prying. You don’t ask questions about my mom, or my money, or why I’m so—so _reserved_ , I guess,” she begins, dragging in long rivulets of air, as if oxygen’s the only thing that can help her find her words.

He smiles sadly. “It isn’t my place. I know that.”

Finding it less frightening than looking him in the eye, she focuses on second button of his shirt and stares.

This isn’t easy by any means. But, somehow, it’s necessary.

“I lost my dad when I was eleven,” she says, surprised by her own composure – she’d expected stammering, or silence. Not self-assurance. “He worked at the wildlife reserve and would take me out there all the time. He used to sing to me. And then there was an accident with some machinery, and…”

It takes her a few seconds to reign in her words, but thankfully, he doesn’t try to speak to fill the silence. He knows better.

“My mom still isn’t over it,” she continues. “I look and act a lot like him, I guess, and so it’s hard for her to talk to me. After he left, she was there, but she wasn’t _there_ , and I had to figure out how to raise myself. So I spent a lot of time alone. Sae lives nearby, though, and she helped out as much as she could, but she has her own business to run, you know? Jo was around a little in high school, and before that I had Gale, but…” She shakes her head, then laughs darkly. “I guess I have abandonment issues. Poor Katniss Everdeen, right?”

Her lips are cinched in an ironic smile, one that makes Peeta wince.

“That’s not what I think,” he says. His words are thick.

“I’m just not good with people. Or with words. Or with putting faith in something, because none of that’s ever worked out for me before.” Her chest feels like it’s been strung up with lead cables. “Jesus, I’m sorry for all the baggage. You didn’t sign up for any of this.”

“I signed up for _you_ , Katniss.” He responds to her so quickly, so adamantly, that she nearly falls backward off the sofa. “I knew since the moment I walked up to you, after our Vanderbilt game, that there was a lot more to you than you let on, and that’s one of the reasons that I—I _love_ you, Katniss.”

He chuckles, nervously ruffling his hair. “Well, that wasn’t supposed to come out like this. Is it too early for me to say that?”

 _Is it?_ “I don’t know.”

“Well,” he says, beaming down at her anyway, “it’s early, and I love you. I’m not going to lie to you.” His face looks like pure sunlight. “I’m not expecting to hear it back, though. I mean, for God’s sake, you told me you have trust issues not thirty seconds ago, and here I am—”

“I think I love you, too.”

She can’t decide which of them more startled by her declaration. A delirious giggle bursts in the back of her mouth. “Oh my god, I don’t even know _how_ , but… but I think I do. Somehow. Maybe. Maybe?”

“You don’t have to decide now,” he says, his thumb brushing tender strokes over her cheekbone. “You don’t have to decide for a month, or a year, or forever, really.”

“At least give me a night. I can sort out my tangled mess of emotions come morning.”

Her chest feels feather-light. Somewhere in the conversation, the stodgy weight evaporated, leaving her buoyant and refreshed.

He touches her hip, her change in mood infecting him as well.

“Come to bed with me?” he asks.

As if she could want anything else.

He walks her to the bedroom, slipping her a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt from his drawer. She changes in the bathroom, slightly mortified with the image of her in _her boyfriend’s clothes_ , but more amused by the way the fabric devours her whole. She didn’t think Peeta was significantly bigger than her, but the kilometers of spare room between her skin and the white cotton beg to differ.

When she emerges, Peeta’s already reclined against the pillows, wearing a pair of blue flannel pants that make his eyes look cosmic. His gaze skims over her before he slaps a hand over his mouth, clearly trying to muffle his amusement.

She curls her bottom lip out.

“I look like the Michelin guy.”

“Or Baymax,” he chuckles, holding up a finger. “Your _personal healthcare companion._ ”

She slinks over to the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight as she curls against his side. His body is warm, per usual. He kisses her forehead, and she thinks she loves him.

After killing the bedside lamp, he meets her in the center of the mattress, weaving his limbs in with hers.

He smells like Old Spice, and she thinks she loves him.

She tucks her head under his chin and smiles, savoring the feel of his fingertips dancing over her back. He touches her everywhere and nowhere, his palms charting her back, hips ribs, shoulders, but his strokes are chaste, _so_ chaste, that it makes her ache in an entirely new way.

He respects her to an unimaginable degree, and she thinks she loves him.

But she _knows_ she trusts him.

Because Peeta would never be the instigator, she knows their evolution is in her hands. So, with the confidence she hadn’t known she was capable of with him, she winds her arms around his neck, pulling herself up his body to kiss him.

He receives her immediately, his mouth eager but soft over hers. He’s caressing cheeks, then her shoulders, then her waist. She’s on fire. She wonders if he can feel it.

Although, she supposes he has a fire of his own by the way his breath blazes against hers, his tongue an open flame searing the seam of her lips. He’s too much and not enough, and somehow perfect, all at the same time; she wants more, more, more, even though she may not be capable of handling it.

She pulls him on top of her, his hips landing between her parted thighs. She can feel him hardening through his pajama bottoms, even though he valiantly tries to hold himself back.

His lips are on her throat. She combs her nails over his back, a flicker of pride igniting her chest from the feel of him shivering under her touch.

She braids her fingers in his hair as his mouth worships her neck, her lips grazing the shell of his ear.

“I want you,” she tells him. It was what she said before their first kiss. It only seems appropriate that she says it again, now, before another notable first.

He draws back. His eyes are moons.

“Okay, so this is _totally_ going to kill the mood, but… do you mean…?”

She rolls her eyes, smacking him playfully on the shoulder. “I’ll speak in baseball metaphor, if that’s easier to understand.” Normally, she’d be flushing the color of a poinsettia, but she forbids herself from feeling embarrassed. This is _Peeta._ There’s nothing to fear with him. “I think it’s time to steal another base.”

His countering expression is somewhere between Dorothy in the Emerald City and mountaineer pre-Everest. She finds this inexplicably enduring.

So she accepts his lips, which first seal over her own, then venture to her throat. He shifts down her body, over her chest and stomach, settling on his elbows between her legs.

She wasn’t anticipating _this_.

He peers up at her, his eyes almost grey in the darkness, but still impossibly affectionate.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

_Yes. Yes. Yes._

She nods. And then she gasps, because his fingers hook around the waistband of the boxer shorts she’s wearing and gently pull them down her thighs.

When the extra fabric is discarded, she can only force herself to watch Peeta return to the space between her thighs for a second before she has to throw an arm over her eyes. She’s never been adept to managing vulnerability, and this is no exception. While she’s made massive leaps tonight by finally coming clean to him, the tiny squealing in her head tells her that maybe, just maybe, this is a step too far.

 _But you trust him,_ says the other voice, replacing the fear in her veins with sweet nectar, and she feels her body relax. _You might even love him._

She jolts when she feels his thumb brush the inside of her thigh.

“You’re absolutely beautiful,” she hears him whisper, which is enough for her to draw her arm from her eyes. She looks down at him, finding him peering up at her, his pupils the size of dimes.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks.

“Positive,” he replies, dipping his lips to kiss the tender flesh at the top of her thigh, so close and yet so far. Electricity rockets from the spot where his mouth had touched her, igniting her all over again.

But then, he’s looking back up to her, eyebrows crinkled.

“Are _you_ sure?” His palm grazes her hipbone. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

Exposing herself may not be her strong suit, but she decides that trusting Peeta is.

She nods.

His arms are hooking under her legs, one looping around her thigh, the other splayed across her tummy. She gazes at the ridges in the ceiling, waiting, waiting, waiting…

“Katniss?”

Her attention snaps down to him. His eyes are bright as they lock with hers, his brow raised. Her core clenches with the feeling of his breath fanning over her center, and she twists her hands in the bedsheets.

“Relax,” he whispers.

She takes a deep breath, this time refusing to look away. Not even as he grins, not even as his fingers glaze over her belly, not even as he dips his head down.

Not even with the touch of his tongue.

Her fists tighten in the blankets, a foreign sound hissing through her clenched teeth. She watches in rapturous shock as his eyelids flutter closed, her center becoming a blank canvas for his reverent mouth. The strokes of his tongue are soft and first, long and deliberate. It’s unlike anything she’s ever felt before.

“Oh,” she gasps, her stomach a fluttering kaleidoscope, her legs entirely numb. “ _Oh_.”

His eyes open as he draws back. His lips and chin are glistening. “Does this feel good?”

“Good?” She wants to smack him. It feels _divine._

He chuckles, wasting no more time before returning to the juncture of her thighs. Her head lolls back as he maps her with his tongue, her soft sounds his pilot, her arching back his praise. He’s good at this – _really_ good at this – and for a split second, she wonders if he’s done this before. But with the way his eyes gleam as he watches her writhe under him, and with the way he worships her body, she knows it doesn’t matter. This is _her_ Peeta. Only hers, just as she’s only his.

Her blanching knuckles move from the sheets to his hair, twisting in the golden curls to anchor him against her. When he chuckles, the hum of his vocal cords resonates through her whole body, making her tremble, a sigh collecting in her lungs.

With the way he speaks, she’s always thought Peeta has a silver tongue.

Oh, how right she was.

With each measured stroke, Peeta stirs something in Katniss, her core stretching tight like a rubber band. It pulls more firmly, insistently, her heartbeat breaking into an erratic sprint. She feels a moan ripping from her throat on its own volition. Her fingers twist tighter in his hair.

She’s never been one for cursing, but a string of obscenities roll off her tongue as Peeta’s enthusiasm spikes, his hand flat against her belly to hold her down, hold her still. Flares of white wink behind her lids as she clenches them shut, everything in her body tensing, coiling, tightening.

Oh, oh, _oh._

When it all reaches a delicious peak, she cries out, “Peet- _ah_ ,” the second syllable a choked gasp. The rubber band tethering every muscle in her stomach together suddenly snaps, the tension in her body unraveling. She feels electric. She arches. She wails. She holds his hair.

Finally, finally, she softens.

Her vision is filtered through pastels, her body next to numb. One of her hands flies to her chest, expecting to find a hole there, where she thinks her heart must’ve jetted out. But no, she’s still intact, her pulse fluttering happily against her palm.

After she gathers herself, she looks down to Peeta, who’s laying feather-light kisses to her center. A smile rings in his eyes. She grasps at his shoulders, urging him up her body.

His grin is ridiculous, hooded lids revealing fat pupils as he nuzzles her nose with his own.

“That… that was— _thank you_ ,” she says, wondering if she can accredit being tongue-tied to her natural incoherence, or the fact that everything in her body seems to be unhinged.

He chuckles. “The pleasure was all mine.”

“I’m pretty sure I had a little more,” she says with a breathy giggle. Her hand reaches up to push back his sweaty curls.

When he kisses her, she notes the difference in taste, and how his lips are softer. But she chooses not to care, weaving her fingers in his hair regardless, holding him close to her. His body is flat on hers, his weight intoxicating. She doesn’t want to ever leave.

So she tells him this much, and he chuckles, his fingers moving to unravel her tangled braid.

“Then don’t. Stay with me.”

Her answer is easy, just like trusting him, just like loving him.

And so she says, “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on Tumblr at the-peeta-pocket. Come be my friend.


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